


Bedroom Hymns

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Body Image, Body Worship, Breastplay, Car Sex, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, F/M, Face-Sitting, Female Ejaculation, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, Lactation Kink, Marking, Morning Sex, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Reunion Sex, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Spooning, Squirting, Stress Relief, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:39:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Flaurel smut ficlets and prompts of varying shapes, sizes, and kinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning sex

**Author's Note:**

> So, here it is! Most of these ficlets will come from [this](http://laurelcasfillo.tumblr.com/post/139753149929/a-list-of-69-kinks) list of 69 smut prompts on tumblr, but I'm open to other ideas as well. You're free to leave them either here in the comments here or over on [tumblr](http://laurelcasfillo.tumblr.com/aske). I can't guarantee I'll get to them all, but I do love getting fresh new ideas. Each chapter will be clearly labeled with the prompt, and I'll add more tags as more chapters are added.
> 
> First up? #61 morning sex.

Laurel comes to like she always does: bit by bit, in stages, with a yawn and then a stretch, followed by the gradual returning of her senses.

First is touch. She moves her fingers, wiggles her toes, feeling familiar zillion thread-count sheets beneath her and the comforter layered over her body, as she lingers in that grey area just between sleep and consciousness. Then comes hearing: the sounds of birds chirping outside, followed by the rustling of the blinds as a gentle spring breeze blows through. Afterwards comes taste – bits of wine on her tongue from last night, mixing with her toothpaste and saliva to form a stale morning _ick_. Fourth is smell. She catches a whiff of the fresh air, then buries her face into the pillow, finding herself confronted by an intoxicating mixture of musky, piney cologne, sweat, and sex there. She hums sleepily at the scent, the perfect Saturday morning perfume, and eases her eyelids open.

Then, at last, comes sight.

Golden rays of sunlight filter in through the blinds, casting lines across the sheets, making them glow. Said sheets are rumpled from last night, and halfway tossed off the bed. The room around her is peaceful and still, illuminated in a similar manner by the late morning sun. On the nightstand, the alarm clock spells out _9:35 AM_ in glowing red letters.

Finally, she glances over at the other side of the bed, and finds Frank there, lying on his stomach with his back facing her.

Content, Laurel sits up and brushes her messy hair out of her eyes, reaching over to trace a finger across the muscular expanse of his back. It makes him twitch in his sleep, and she chuckles lowly, continuing on, then placing the tip of her fingernail on his skin and guiding it across so that it makes a faint scraping noise. At that the sleeping Frank grunts, and shifts; he’s always been a light sleeper, jumping awake at the slightest provocation, and she knows she won’t need to do much to wake him.

Predictably, this morning, she doesn’t have to either. Hardly a minute later, Frank makes a low, garbled sound, pauses for a moment, then rolls over to face her, still only half-awake. Part of his hair flops in his face in the most disarming way, his blue eyes taking in the sight of her with so much tenderness that it makes her downright giddy to be the first thing he sees in the morning.

“Rise and shine,” she sing-songs, and lets him curl an arm around her.

“Damn,” he mutters, his voice raspy and sexy with sleep. “I ever tell you how much I love waking up next to you?”

“You may have mentioned it once or twice before,” Laurel teases. “But you can always tell me again.”

“So much.” Laurel gives him a look, and he smirks. “What? Can’t exactly ‘spect me to be a poet this early in the morning.”

“Really? No five page sonnets about… the way my hair looks in the sunlight after a long night’s sleep?” she laughs. “Or an ode to my toxic morning breath?”

“I love your morning breath.” Laurel makes a sound of disbelief, and he moves closer, maneuvering himself so that he’s half on top of her. “Lemme prove it.”

He steals a kiss before Laurel can protest, long and deep enough to get a taste of her. She laughs against his mouth, and he pulls back with a grin. “See? I’d kiss you any hour of the day.”

Frank shifts on top of her right then, and when he does she feels something unmistakably hard brush her thigh. Amused, Laurel folds her hands behind her head and lies back against the pillow, taking in the sight of his not-at-all inconspicuous morning wood with a raised eyebrow.

“Is that a banana in your pocket,” she begins, teasingly, “or are you just… happy to see me?”

Unabashed, as they’ve been faced with this, well, _not so little_ problem countless times before, Frank just glances down at his erection, acknowledging it casually, like an old friend making a reappearance, before raising his eyes back up to her.

He lowers his voice mock-seriously. “Y’know, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not wearin’ any pants.”

“Mmm,” she hums, then giggles, glancing over towards the bathroom. “Well, I should probably go shower.”

Catching onto her game, Frank reaches out and tugs her back into his chest before she can even start to sit up. “So what? Not gonna help me out here?”

“I'm sorry. I didn’t realize your morning wood was _my_ problem.”

He chuckles, planting a trail of scratchy kisses along her collarbone. “C’mon. Gonna make me beg?”

All at once, in the blink of an eye, Laurel has reversed their positions, straddling him and framing his hips with her legs. For a moment she pauses, taking in the sight of him from this new angle: his bare, chiseled abdomen, glowing in the sunlight; his hair, tousled, almost boyish; and his cock, standing at attention, ready for her. Biting her lower lip and narrowing her eyes, she reaches down to stroke it with one hand, massaging the bead of pre come at the tip down the shaft slowly, then drawing back and giving him a firm pump. The sudden jerk makes Frank grunt, and she can see the muscles in his jaw quivering as he clenches it to keep from moaning aloud. It makes her press her thighs together, feel the dampness gathering between them.

“Maybe I should,” she breathes, swiveling her hips and brushing up against his erection again. “Make you beg.”

Without much warning – and surprisingly, without a witty comeback – Frank just reaches up, places his hands on her hips, and guides her off of him, rolling her over onto her side so that he’s spooning her from behind, and scissoring their limbs together. It’s more comfortable, their preferred early-morning, sleepy sex position, and she laughs breathlessly when Frank takes his hand to guides his cock against her folds, brushing her clit and forcing a fresh rush of desire between her legs, directly onto his tip. It sends a tremor through her, and she gasps, reaching back to run a hand through his hair, while he kisses idly at her neck and shoulder; nothing rough, never nipping or biting. Just wet, sloppy kisses that make her grin like a fool.

“This,” Frank murmurs between kisses, his breath catching in his throat as her wetness drenches the head of his cock, “is without a doubt the _best_ way to start the day.”

“Yeah?” she pants, as her hips stutter towards his cock, trying to draw him in without giving away just how bad she’s aching for it. Her cunt throbs, burns, so wet that he would slide in with hardly any effort at all – if he would just _move_. “Speak for yourse – _ah_.”

Frank slips inside her just then, one short, quick motion, and in doing so steals the words right off her tongue. He pulls out within seconds, however, making her walls quiver as they try to grasp what isn’t there, before entering her again and burying himself up to the hilt. His thrusts are slow, lazy. She likes it like this: tender and sweet, almost more than she likes it rough. He fills her so completely, in a way that makes her suddenly conscious of how _empty_ she feels when he isn’t inside her.

“You know what they say,” Frank mumbles against her neck. He brushes her hair out of the way, kissing the soft skin of her nape. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, gasping. “I think… that you’d say pretty much _anything_ to get laid.”

Frank just makes a low sound as if to admit she is one hundred percent right about that, and moves his lips up behind her ear, right where she’s especially sensitive. The rhythm of his thrusts is steady, unhurried. With one hand he continues stroking her hair, and _God_ , there really isn’t anything she loves more than him doing that. Feeling the pressure build as he drives her closer, Laurel reaches down between her legs, to massage her clit and feel where they’re joined, feel herself stretch in the most blissful way as he moves in and out.

Apparently not content to let her do much work this morning, Frank gives a disapproving grunt, reaches down, and moves her hand away, replacing it with his own, rubbing her with the pads of his fingers. He knows how to touch her, how to play her body. Knows her like a map, and with his fingers on her in exactly the right way, she can’t help but cry out quietly; a high-pitched, fluttering little sound. Her hips rock against him instinctively, meeting him thrust for thrust. Her other hand grasps the pillow, holding it tight. She’s close, writhing against him, and although he doesn’t seem it, she knows Frank is, too, his thrusts growing faster and more erratic as he chases his own pleasure inside her. 

“’M gonna…” she murmurs, her voice half-muffled by the pillow. “I – _oh_ …”

“Don’t talk,” he says, gruffly. “Just come.”

Even though she’s close, Laurel can’t help but laugh breathlessly at that oh-so-articulate command, and opens her mouth to speak, but the words die on her tongue when the pleasure finally tips her over the edge, out of nowhere. When she comes it isn’t blinding, or earth-shattering or white hot; it’s a gentle burn, the release making her limbs loose, relaxed. She gasps into the pillow, feeling herself tighten and flutter deliciously around him, as if to pull his cock in deeper and keep him there. Just like she’d thought he would, Frank swears under his breath at the sensation – a throaty _Fuck, Laurel_ – before following suit, giving one last thrust before spilling hot inside her.

They don’t move, after. Frank doesn’t even pull out; instead they stay like that, holding each other, still joined. It’s more intimate than even sex, in a way. It’s a comforting feeling, him still inside her, right where he belongs, and it brings a sleepy smile to her lips, which grows even wider when Frank raises his face to hers and kisses her tenderly, like he wants to savor this moment as much as she does.

“Well,” she breathes after he pulls away. “Good morning to you, too.”

He nips at her ear playfully. “Just good?”

Laurel rolls her eyes and turns to face him completely, letting him slip out of her. “Fine. _The best_.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He gives her another kiss and sits up, nodding towards the bathroom. “Shower?”

Laurel nods without a word and stretches her arms again, watching as Frank goes for the bathroom. For a few seconds she doesn’t move, just admires the view of his body from behind, all hard muscles and smooth edges, with a dumb, half-loopy smile on her face – because waking up next to him, this man, everyday… It’s something she could see herself doing. The realization should scare her, maybe, because she can’t recall ever wanting that so much with someone before, but it doesn’t.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Frank turns in the doorway. “You coming or what?”

“Oh, I better be,” she replies, and springs up out of bed after him, pouncing like a feline. “In more ways than one.”


	2. Oral sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #2, oral sex.

There’s tension in his shoulders.

Coiled tight, pent-up like a steam pipe, over-pressured and ready to burst. He’s stiff, too, with an ache deep in his bones and a pounding in his head. It’s the end of the day, late at night. Frank can feel the caffeine in his system drying up, and that, mixed with the stressful shitshow that was today, makes him really want to do nothing but go home and sleep for the next twelve hours.

Or get drunk. He’s leaning more towards the latter option, right now.

He’d fucked up a case. Well – not him, specifically, but Annalise had assigned him to watch their star witness, who from the start had been reluctant to testify and a flight risk. As soon as he’d taken his eyes off the old man for a few seconds, he’d managed to slip out the back door of the courthouse cafeteria surprisingly stealthily for a grandpa with like ten different kinds of arthritis, leaving them high and dry in the middle of trial and pissing off Annalise to a dangerous degree. She’d chewed him out for a good ten minutes after that, torn him to shreds, before calling him worthless and putting him on paperwork duty.

So. Needless to say, it’s been a sucky day – and it would be complete and utter shit if it weren’t for Laurel, who trails behind him as he ambles into his apartment and drops his keys on the counter with a _clatter_. Frank exhales sharply, shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing that over the back of one of his chairs, too.

“Drink?” he asks, as he makes his way over to his bar, rolling up his sleeves.

“I’m good,” Laurel yawns, kicking off her shoes and strolling into his kitchenette. “Got anything to heat up?”

He pours himself a glass and gulps half of it down half immediately, welcoming the burn of the liquor in his throat. “Ziti, in the fridge. I’ll get it.”

Half-asleep, Frank walks over to the fridge, pulls out the little glass container with ziti in it, and tosses it into the microwave, hitting a few buttons and then listening to the resulting hum. He grimaces at the pounding in his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with a scowl, and Laurel, who is standing beside him at the counter, notices.

“You okay?”

Her voice is gentle, deep blue eyes flickering with concern. He tries to summon up some kind of reassurance for her, that he’s fine, just tired, but it’s been too long and too miserable of a day for him to bother putting up a front for her sake. Working for Annalise is hard as hell some days, and even though it’s far better a job than the other ones he could be doing without a college education, he can only work so many chaotic sixty hour weeks before it starts to wear him down, a bit.

“Fine,” he mutters, without looking at her. “Long day.”

“You’re stressed,” she observes, walking up behind him and curling her arms around his middle. She stands on her tiptoes slightly and nuzzles her nose into the back of his neck, inhaling a breath of his cologne. “It wasn’t your fault, what happened with Mr. Marsden. He would’ve just found some other way to get out of testifying if he really didn’t want to.”

“Still. Case is fucked. I’m on Annalise’s shit list, and trust me, that’s not a fun place to be.” Laurel slips her hands into the back pockets of his slacks, leaning into him, and the gentle press of her body is enough to make him loosen up, somewhat. He lets out a breath. “But whatever. Like I said before: this apartment has gotta be an Annalise-free zone. For both our sanities.”

Laurel makes a sympathetic little noise in the back of her throat, still looking unconvinced, then moves back. “I’m gonna go change. Be right back.”

He nods, and she disappears into the next room. After a minute or so the microwave beeps, and he reaches up to open it, pulling out the ziti. He’s just about to start spooning it onto two plates when, suddenly, he feels two little hands slipping into his back pockets again. Groggy as he is, he jumps before he can remember that it’s only Laurel, and turns his head back to look at her.

“Jesus,” he chuckles. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He takes another brief look back at her, and finds that she’s dressed herself in his blue bathrobe, which positively dwarfs her small frame and swallows her right up. Her hair is disheveled from the long day, her makeup smudged, a lazy little grin playing at her lips. However, it’s the mischief in Laurel’s eyes that catches his attention – and when he feels her hands pull out of his pockets and creep around to his front, tracing the cool leather of his belt, he raises an eyebrow.

“Just what do you think you’re doin’?” he teases, not at all disapproving of this course of action she’s decided on tonight.

Since he’s facing away from her, toward the counter, he can’t see the look on Laurel’s face, but he can imagine that she’s smiling now, and gnawing at her lower lip, like she always does when she gets frisky. Her hands creep lower, and then lower still, to ghost over his groin, and in the back of his mind he pictures the way her front teeth always dig into her lip when she bites it, leaving entrancing little marks behind; and the way her eyes light up and dance. That thought, coupled with the feeling of her hands and the way she’s pressing her body against him from behind, is enough to make him start to stir in his slacks, the fog of exhaustion clearing from his mind.

“Helping you relax,” Laurel purrs, then lowers her voice to a more serious tone and presses a kiss to his shoulder. “You had a bad day. Let me… make it better.”

Smirking, he turns to face her finally, and finds Laurel with a genuine little smile on her face, pupils dialated. She hadn’t tied his robe around her waist securely at all, and it has parted down the middle, revealing the delectable curves of her breasts and the valley between them. Frank swallows heavily at the sight and opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off by reaching down and cupping him over his slacks. She palms him, strokes him just like she knows will drive him crazy, all the while looking in his eyes without a word. Quickly he feels himself harden in her hand, growing longer and thicker as all the blood in his body rushes to his cock in seconds, until he’s straining against the fabric.

She stands on her tiptoes to kiss him as she works, and after she pulls away, his smirk grows wider. “You really know how to cheer a guy up, y’know.”

“Damn right I do,” she replies, voice lilting almost musically.

With nimble fingers, Laurel reaches up just then, undoes his belt, then makes similarly short work of his zipper, until she’s freed his cock and taken it into her hands. That sudden, direct contact is enough to make him grunt lowly, and, driven on by the sound, Laurel leans in again, laying wet kisses on his neck and giving him a series of firm pumps, until he’s rock-hard and throbbing. He doesn’t know what she’s got planned for him tonight, and he’s just about to ask if she intends to just get him off right here, right now, rather unceremoniously like this – when all at once Laurel draws back, reaches past him, and grabs the kitchen towel hanging on the oven door in one swift motion. Then, she grabs ahold of his cock again, taking a step back and giving him a little tug forward like a dog on a leash, beckoning him to follow.

“Come on,” Laurel breathes, licking her lips. “Let’s take this to the couch.”

The towel in her hand, ostensibly for clean-up, the look in her eyes, the devilish grin on her face… It’s all he needs to see to know that this is about to get really fucking messy.

Really fucking messy, and really fucking _hot_.

Frank has always been prone to being led around figuratively by his dick, sure, but to be _literally_ led by his dick, and by Laurel at that, is so incredibly arousing that it makes his world pulse red around the edges, drives him half-mad. The hammering of his own heartbeat is all he can hear, silencing every other noise as Laurel stops in front of the couch, drops the towel on the floor next to her, makes off with his slacks until they lay around his ankles, and then places two hands firmly on his chest, pushing him back. He lands in a sitting position, with his cock standing up large and dark in his boxer-briefs, at attention.

Laurel looms over him in silence for a moment, rubbing her lips together, and then, with another few, precise movements, the ties on her robe come undone, falling away. All she has to do is shrug to send it tumbling off, exposing her slim, magnificent body beneath. It never fails to make him salivate: her pert, round little breasts; the gentle curves of her hips; the shaved, bare mound between her legs, where her thighs meet, and the thought of what lies just beneath. It takes his breath away, and Frank lets out a low whistle, leaning back against the couch with a wolfish grin.

“Holy hell.”

Laurel lowers herself onto his lap, smiling and running her fingers through his slick hair. The smile falters, however, when he dips his head to suckle at one of her breasts and hum around the hardened nipple, sampling her flesh like the most scrumptious dessert he’s ever had.

“I know, I know. You’re wondering how you got so lucky.”

Hell fucking _yes_ he is. Frank gives a low sound of agreement against her breast, which morphs into one of disappointment quickly when Laurel pulls back, out of reach. But that doesn’t last long at all, because within moments she is maneuvering herself off his lap instead, and sinking down onto her knees before him. Her hands go for his boxer-briefs, peeling them down as he aids her by shifting upward slightly, and soon those are gone too, allowing her complete and total access to his cock, nothing in the way. And the sight of Laurel on her knees, licking her lips again, sizing him up with undeniably hungry eyes… Christ, he could almost come from that alone. It’s his every filthy fantasy come to life. It’s everything.

 _Laurel_ is everything. She’s fucking _perfect_.

She starts slowly, with her hands, exploring his length with nimble fingers, over the prominent veins in his cock, down the shaft, then lower, to his balls, which she cups and caresses tenderly. And he’s a tease, of course, but Laurel has him equally matched, with her whisper touches and wet, shiny lips that look so ready and so eager to take his cock. He swallows heavily, the tip of his dick glistening already with pre come, aching and thrumming like a live wire for her – and before he can think twice:

“Please,” he gives a strained groan, as her hands explore him and her eyes torment him, but she still refuses to move in with her mouth. “Fucking… please, Laurel.”

It’s the sound of her name that seems to urge her on. She doesn’t answer, but her eyes light up, then narrow again, and she shifts on her knees, pressing her thighs together, no doubt to create some friction there. It gets her hot, he knows, when she sees how hard she makes him, how much she turns him on. How _bad_ he needs it.

She loves it. And so, finally, Laurel leans in, drops her jaw, parts those sweet, soft lips, and takes him into her mouth.

As soon as she does, he’s gone; in both body and mind. It’s all he can feel, hot and wet and like goddamn silk, closing around him so divinely; everything else fades away, to a distant greyness in the background. It’s even better than being inside her, with the added bonus of her wicked little tongue which she utilizes in all the right ways, swirling around his cock like it’s one of the lollipops she always seems to be sucking on around the office. The feeling, and the soft sounds she makes around him – not obscene slurps, but ones that are just loud enough to hear, alternating with muffled moans – loosen a long, guttural moan of his own from his throat. He leans his head back against the couch, gritting his teeth as the pressure builds, and Laurel keeps going, goddamn relentless, urging more and more of his cock into her mouth until he can feel himself almost in her _throat_.

Still, undaunted, Laurel continues on, taking more of him, not even batting an eye, though he can see her eyes start to tear up faintly from the girth in her throat.

“ _Fuck_.” The words burst out of his mouth before he can help it, almost infantile babbling. “God, Laurel… Christ-”

It’s all so much, so stimulating. Borderline overwhelming. The sight of her is what really does Frank in, with her red, swollen lips wrapped around him, her bare breasts, her flawless body, all of her… He’s dangerously close to the edge, teetering on that precipice of ecstasy, moaning freely now, but he doesn’t give a fuck about how he sounds, because all he can do is _feel_. He has to struggle not to grab at Laurel’s hair, lest he make her gag or hurt her, and so he satisfies himself with stroking it instead, tucking strands behind her ear lovingly as he watches her, captivated.

“Fuck, you’re amazing. You’re… so fucking perfect. Just… ‘m gonna-”

Laurel’s eyes flick up to look at him, warming slightly at the praise. He’s so close, so fucking close, his release so pent-up that he’s bound to erupt at any moment, and her looking up at him just pushes him closer still, until-

Without warning, Laurel pulls back.

The sudden rush of cold air on his dick, and the torturous loss of contact as he slides out of her the warm haven of her throat, makes him groan desperately. His eyes fly open, glancing down at her with confusion and something almost like anger, finding her only connected to his cock now by a silk-like strand of saliva from her mouth. He’s about to beg again – because maybe that’s what she wants tonight, though she doesn’t appear to – when her hands take the place of her mouth unexpectedly, and she leans in closer, so that he bobs heavily near her neck and breasts, the smooth fields of flesh unsullied, clean.

“On me,” she pants like it’s an order, and that – the sight of Laurel on her knees, eyes wide, telling him to come on her, _all over_ her – is what finally sends him reeling.

She strokes him through it, as he lands in hot streams on her neck, breasts, collarbone – even on her chin and lips, which she licks clean like she can’t get enough of his taste, and _fucking Christ_ , the sight only makes him come harder. It’s so different than finishing in her mouth; wild, untamed, messy as hell, and _hot._ So unimaginably hot he almost doesn’t remember to breathe.

When he comes back down, and his vision stops spinning, Frank finally gets a good look at her. Just as he’d known she would be, she’s positively covered in him, gifted with a pearl necklace and a few wayward dribbles on her chin, a glistening drop beside her mouth. For a long moment, all he can do is marvel at the sight, unholy and majestic – and it’s so filthy, _she’s_ so filthy, and coated with him, and debauched, and his.

She’s never looked so completely, totally, irrevocably _his_.

He’d like to stay like that and take in the sight of her like that forever, but after a minute or so Laurel reaches for the towel she’d had the good sense to procure beforehand and wipes herself clean, panting. She still hasn’t said anything, but she’s flushed from head to toe, every inch of her burning bright red, and he doesn’t have to check to know that she’s sopping wet; the way she squirms and squeezes her thighs together for the umpteenth time is enough for him to know for sure.

“Shit,” he manages to say, a dumb grin on his face as he urges her back up, into his lap. “You’re _way_ too good at that.”

Laurel smiles back, equally breathless. “Yeah?”

“Hell yeah,” he purrs, sucking at her neck and trying, almost subconsciously, to leave marks where his come had coated her; ones that will last for days, maybe a week “After that I oughta buy you a real pearl necklace.”

She feigns surprise. “Just pearls? I was thinking more along the lines of… diamonds.”

“Whatever you want,” Frank promises between kisses, as love-struck and infatuated as a schoolboy, ready to promise her the world. “Anything.”

“Well, for now…” Laurel drifts off suggestively, tracing a finger across his lips and then probing between them. “I think I’ll just settle for some reciprocity.”

Frank doesn’t have to be asked twice. ‘Reciprocity’ is his goddamn middle name, especially after _that_ , and so in a matter of seconds he has flipped their positions, pressed Laurel back against the couch in a semi-sitting, semi-slouching position, pried apart her legs, and settled in at his favorite meal. It’s like religion, the way her hands grasp at his hair, the way she cries out, the way she grinds her soaking pussy against his mouth, hips bucking, desperate for his tongue.

She’s like religion, and Frank is more than happy to get down on his knees to worship her.


	3. Ownership/claiming/marking, possessive!Laurel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically canon divergent, since this takes place during 2x04 and Flaurel wasn’t banging/dating then, but whatever. Enjoy. 
> 
> #57, rough sex. Also #45, ownership/claiming/marking.

“Loosen up, baby girl. Stop lookin’ at your man; the whole part of a sex party isn’t monogamy. Have some fun. Live a little.”

Laurel jumps at the sudden voice behind her, and turns just in time to see a buff, handsome, shirtless stranger – early thirties, at most – sidle in and take a seat on the barstool next to her. Around his neck hangs a symbol of a snake on a plastic card, matching the one on hers.  

That probably means they’re compatible to bone, or something. Well – not happening. 

Laurel doesn’t answer, at first. She just sips idly at the water she’d ordered from the bartender – they’re on a mission here tonight, and she needs to stay sharp – and chews on her lower lip. She hadn’t been sure what to expect, coming to a sex party in the modern-day equivalent of a brothel to convince their client Tanya’s friend to testify in her defense. It’s classier than she’d expected, she’ll give it that, and she hasn’t seen any phallic-shaped deserts yet, at least. At first she’d been reluctant to go at all tonight, but Frank had persuaded her, telling her that “c’mon, we’ll just butter her up. How hard can that be if she’s at a sex party? And ‘sides, who knows? Maybe it’ll be fun to spice things up a bit.” 

_Frank._ Speaking of…

The thought just makes her glare daggers even harder across the room at where he stands, clad in a dark three-piece suit, cozying up to Tanya’s friend with narrowed, flirtatious eyes and an all-too-familiar smirk on his face. He’s the epitome of a charmer; he can talk the talk, say all the right things, have a woman wrapped around his finger within an hour like he has it down to a science, and he does. She knows he does; Frank flirts as naturally as he breathes. There’s never an awkward lull in the conversation between them, at least as long as she’s been watching, and the woman is reaching out now, fingering his tie idly, laughing loudly at whatever he’s saying and falling into his trap just like he’d wanted.

She’s been watching them for almost thirty minutes, from her vantage point at the bar. By now, she’s starting to turn positively green with envy.

“I’m not interested,” Laurel finally tells him, her gaze never leaving Frank.

“Everyone’s interested here, sweetheart,” he counters with a purr. “This your first time at a party like this? I’d more than happy to… pop your cherry.”

Finally, Laurel turns to give him a cursory glance. He’s attractive, she’ll give him that. Not _Frank-level_ attractive, but still hot as hell with dark hair and equally dark eyes, and he sure looks like he knows it. Under normal circumstances she’d probably try to chat him up for more information about Tanya, switch on her own charm, but as it stands she’s having more than a little trouble focusing on that mission, and all she can see is Frank, who now looks just about ready to kiss the woman he’s hitting on, and – oh, _no_.

Hell no. This may be business, but she’s his girlfriend, and he’s _her_ boyfriend, and that is one hundred percent _off-limits_.

Without another word to the man, she springs up from the barstool and stalks over across the room where Frank stands, next to a high table, with the woman at his side and a drink in his hand. Laurel can feel the crowd’s eyes on her as she passes; she’d make a conscious choice to wear her tiniest black dress and her highest fuck-me pumps, and she knows damn well how good she looks. The sound of said pumps clacking loudly on the hardwood floor prompts Frank to tear his eyes from the woman, and look over at her as she approaches with a frown.

Laurel comes to a stop beside the pair, exhaling sharply and ignoring the woman’s dirty look. “Frank, can I talk to you for a second?”

He gives her an urgent glare as if to remind her of the plan, but she just stares back, unyielding, and so, finally, he frowns, excuses himself, and follows her down a nearby hallway near the bathroom, with dim red lighting that makes them both glow crimson.

“What the hell?” he demands, once they’re out of earshot of everyone. “I was making good progress with her.”

Laurel scoffs. “Yeah, _good progress with her_ all right.”

It’s only after she says the words that she realizes how blatantly jealous they sound. Frank seems to come to a similar realization, and amusement floods his eyes, an infuriating little grin playing at his lips.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“I – no,” she shoots back, far too defensive to sound convincing. A man passes on his way to the bathroom and gives them a strange look, prompting Laurel to lower her voice. “But… You were practically _kissing_ her, and I don’t see why that was necessary.”

“You know I don’t mean it. I’m just tryin’ to butter her up. If we can get her to testify, we’re golden. That’s the whole reason we’re here.”

Laurel shakes her head, sighing. “Yeah, I know. I’m just…” _Jealous. Very jealous._

“Look, I gotta get back out there,” he tells her, then grins again, drawing her close and pecking her on the lips before breaking away. “But don’t worry. You know I only got eyes for you. I mean that.”

 

\--

 

By the end of the night, Tanya’s friend has refused to testify despite Frank’s best efforts, Laurel has watched him flirt his ass off for almost three hours straight, and nothing has been accomplished – aside from the fact that she’s more than a little miffed.

Laurel knows it’s probably stupid to be mad. It was strictly business, a mission for Annalise. He hadn’t meant it – but it sure had looked like he had, like he’d really wanted her, and the thought makes her blood boil in her veins. She’s not the crazy, possessive girlfriend type. She isn’t the kind to get jealous whenever Frank so much as looks at another woman. But tonight, after he’d made such a show of flirting, and looked like he was genuinely enjoying himself, and given that woman looks that Laurel had been so sure were reserved for her, _only_ her…

Actually, yeah, _possessive_ does seem to fit what she’s feeling, right now.

The car ride back to his apartment is tense. Frank tries to make conversation, but Laurel’s too busy stewing to give him anything more than terse, one-word answers, and so eventually he gives up and drives on in silence. Laurel’s never felt this way before in her life; so angry her whole body feels like it’s pulsing with rage, and that same rage seeps into her blood, and oddly enough, out of nowhere, that blood pools hot between her legs, making her throb there too, in her core. It’s something animal in her that arises, something frighteningly, uncontrollably… primal. To stake a claim on her mate. On Frank.

To make him _hers_.

It’s all she can think about, suddenly. There’s a hum in her bones, a relentless buzz that keeps her on edge as she trails behind him up the stairs to his apartment. Her whole body feels so violently awake, with a surging combination of anger and arousal, spilling over her edges and seeping out of her cracks. She can feel her heartbeat traveling straight to her clit. A layer of sweat breaks out across her forehead and neck, and a flush creeps onto her cheeks.

And so, as soon as they step in the door, Laurel is upon him.

She all but attacks Frank, with such ferocity and force in her kiss that she barely recognizes herself, and slams him up against the wall just inside his door, so hard that it makes the painting hanging behind them rattle. He gives a low grunt of surprise against her mouth, but doesn’t pull away, and her hands go for the lapels of his suit jacket to hold him in place. Her kisses are harsh and biting, like she wants to devour him, with just enough teeth to make him tense in pain. She can taste the liquor on his tongue, and she feels drunk on it, on his taste, and on her rage, on _desire_ , and her world is tinted red with both.

_Possess. Consume. Make him hers. Let him know who he belongs to._ It repeats over and over like a mantra in her head, as if she’s a madwoman. Maybe she is, now. Maybe that’s what he’s turned her into, because somehow, now, having him with her here like this isn’t enough. She wants him to _belong_ to her.

After a moment, Frank pulls away, breathless, eyes twinkling with mirth. “The hell you doin’?”

“Reminding you,” is the answer Laurel hisses back, before capturing his lips in another searing kiss and running her fingers through his slick hair.

“Of what?” he manages between kisses, still looking like he thinks this is a joke more than anything – and it is not.

It is absolutely fucking _not_.

As if to prove that, Laurel bites down on his lower lip right then – hard. Frank groans, and moments later she tastes metallic blood trickling into their kiss. It coats her lips, the tangling of their tongues, and only drives her on, until the pulsing between her legs is unbearable. She’s never been this rough, before; never even wanted to. But something in her has been awakened, seeing him so close to another woman. She doesn’t feel like she’s in control of her own body anymore.

Finally, Laurel pulls away and takes one long look at Frank. His lip is bleeding, crimson droplets blooming where her teeth had punctured his skin, his pupils dialated with desire and eyes full of bewilderment. He reaches up with one hand to dab the blood away from his lip, and furrows his brow at her when he draws his fingers back to look at them.

He sure as hell doesn’t look like he thinks she’s joking now.

“That you’re mine,” she finishes, breathing the words in one breath.

She sees Frank’s eyes light up when she does. It’s not like that’s unfamiliar to either of them, that kind of possession. All the countless times he’d make her tell him she’s his before he’d fuck her, how he’d make her moan the words, swear that she’d never be anyone else’s, and tell her that _You’re mine, Laurel. Mine, mine_ … Now, she’ll turn the tables. Make him hers. The thought makes her so unimaginably wet she can feel herself dampening her panties, soaking and sullying the thin black lace.

In one swift movement, however, as if wanting to regain the upper hand, Frank has spun her around and reversed their positions, pushing her up against the wall instead. He gives her a feral grin, licking his bloody lip and cocking his head to one side.

“Yeah? How you gonna do that?”

There’s a challenge in his eyes, plain as day. And God knows Laurel’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

So she kisses Frank again, harder this time to shut him up, running her teeth along his wounded bottom lip and making him wince. Roughly, she makes off with his suit jacket before going for his vest, slipping her fingers through the holes and popping the buttons, not caring a bit if she breaks them. She’s disrobed Frank like this so many times that it takes her only a minute until she has him shirtless, and as soon as she does, she places her hands on his back, digging her nails into his skin, before pulling them down abruptly, so savagely that it leaves bloody gashes behind. Frank half-roars in pain at that, swearing under his breath – _Jesus fuck, Laurel!_ – and Laurel yanks her lips away from his, swallowing heavily and licking her swollen lips.

_How is she gonna do that?_ She’ll mark him. Claim him, like he’s her territory. Fuck him until his head spins, until he can’t even remember the name of any other girl he’s ever known. Until she’s all he sees, all he can feel, all he knows.

_That’s_ what she wants.

Laurel doesn’t answer. She just wraps her legs around his waist, urging him to pick her up with strong arms. As if sensing it’s best not to disobey tonight, Frank complies in seconds, and carries her like that off into the bedroom. He tries to let her down on the bed and climb atop her, but before he can, she springs up, shoves him back onto the pillows instead, and reaches up to tug her dress over her head. Off go her heels and pantyhose, followed by her bra and panties, until she’s naked as the day she was born. Normally she would let Frank savor the sight of her like this, because she knows how much he loves it, but she doesn’t, tonight; instead, she just goes for his slacks next, undoing his belt while he watches and then tugging them off, until he’s only wearing his boxer-briefs, his cock standing up at attention in them. Instinct makes her even wetter at the sight, so much so that she can feel a damp stickiness spilling down on the insides of her thighs.

But she ignores it, and straddles Frank instead, pulling him up into a sitting position. She brushes his cock over the fabric, grinds against it, makes him squirm and groan. When she kisses him again it’s just as rough as all the times before – but this time, Frank pulls away, looking almost eager to slow the pace.

“Hey,” he says, eyes flickering with something she might call concern, if she was of sound mind right now. “What’s goin’ on with you tonight, huh?”

“Seeing you with her,” Laurel answers, and lowers her lips to his neck, biting and nipping with the scrapes of her teeth. “That woman. I hated it.”

His hand goes for her breast like it usually does, and he thumbs the nipple idly, drawing back and trying to get her to look him in the eye. “Didn’t mean anything, I told you that – _ah_.”

He winces when she bites down particularly hard; something she doesn’t do – well, ever. She’s not usually the one who leaves hickeys or bite marks; that’s more Frank’s department, but now, there’s nothing she wants more than to give him one, leave it up high enough where everyone – and every _woman_ – can see, and know that he’s hers. _All hers_.

“I want you to know it,” she pants in his ear. “I want you to forget her. Every other girl. I want you to know… who you belong to.”

Frank almost looks like he’s about to smirk again and shoot back some smartass comment, but before he can, she pushes him back against the pillows again, silencing him in seconds. She maneuvers herself off him briefly, making off with his boxer briefs too and finally leaving him exposed to her. He starts to open his mouth to say something again, this time not looking like he’s kidding – but Laurel cuts him off by moving in at once, straddling him, wrapping her fingers around his shaft, and lowering herself over him just so, guiding him against her swollen, dripping folds, aching just as badly to have him inside her as he is aching to _be_ inside her.

“Say it,” she hisses, and teases him against her again, until his tip is drenched and he’s groaning, bucking up into her fist, his hands scrambling for leverage on her hips, her ass, anywhere to try to tug her down onto him. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Laurel… _Christ_.”

Laurel gives him a firm pump before he can answer, spreading her wetness down his length for lubrication and ripping another groan from his throat, holding all the power in her hand right then, every ounce of it. She can give him what he wants or deny him, and there’s something thrilling in that kind of power that never gets old, that makes her so hot she smolders.

“I’m yours.” His voice is strained, Adam’s apple bobbing heavily when he gulps. “Fuck, you _know_ I am, Laurel.”

“Again,” she breathes, and guides his cock up higher, rubbing the head directly on her clit, making them both shudder and gasp. Her cunt flutters, clenches around nothing, so painfully empty she could cry. She’s wet, too, so much that she’s downright coated him now, soaked his cock, and soaked her own fingers as they grip him. “Say it again. _Say it_.”

His voice is a moan now, hoarse and unabashedly pleading. Frank is gone; she can see it in his eyes, glazed over, lost. His instincts take control, and all he cares about, now, is getting inside her and coming his brains out. It’s like she’s flipped some switch in him, turned him into a child who can only speak in choppy, infantile sentences – and it hadn’t even taken much. Just a few kisses, a few touches, and he was hers, wholly and completely.

He _is_ hers.

“I’m yours. I’m yours, I’m so… I’m so fucking yours, Laurel – God,” he blurts out, dull fingernails digging into her hips. “ _Please_.”

_I’m yours. I’m yours._ Just hearing the words makes shivers pass over her. Now she understands why he loves to make her say them so much. To hear him declare it, over and over, and swear himself to her, and _be hers_ , and that control, that possession… It takes her aback, just how fucking _amazing_ it feels.

So, finally, she makes her move. In the blink of an eye she has grabbed his hands, placed them on her breasts, then lined his cock up with her and sunk down. They both cry out at the sensation, and Laurel squeezes her eyes shut, a lightshow flashing behind them, mouth dropping open. He feels huge inside her, rock-hard, stretching her almost to the point of pain but stopping just short, and she has to struggle not to come from the initial sensation of being so suddenly deliciously _full_. She doesn’t want to let him get her there so quickly, though, and so she goes still, sucks in a shaky breath, and composes herself, before she’s sure she can start moving without coming.

“Fuck…” he growls, cupping her breasts, pawing at him from his vantage point beneath her. “You feel so… so fucking good.”

With determination, she starts moving, rolling her hips, working herself up and down, bracing herself against his chest and riding him until all she can hear is the sound of skin slapping skin. It deadens her senses, hypnotizes her, and watching Frank beneath her, groaning helplessly and almost fucking writhing, is mesmerizing.

“Keep saying it,” Laurel pants, body dripping with sweat as she moves over him. “Keep… tell me… _God_.”

Frank gulps, mouth moving without words for a while, before he finally manages to choke out, “I’m… only yours, okay? She was nothing. And – shit, I’ll never even _look_ at another girl again. Ever. I…”

He’s close. She can see it in Frank’s eyes as his control slips, feel him swelling inside her as he thrusts up, hot and growing almost impossibly hotter. But she shakes her head, breathing heavily and riding him harder, and placing one of her hands at the base of his neck, pressing down onto his windpipe – not enough to hurt him or cut off his airway, but enough to make him pay close attention, _listen_ to her.

Laurel shakes her head, strands of sweaty hair falling in her face. “Uh uh. M-me first. Make _me_ come.”

She can afford to be selfish, tonight. Her rhythm is faltering atop him now, growing more erratic by the second. The pressure between her legs is building to an agonizing level, inching towards its peak, so close, inches, centimeters, then just a whisper away… She abandons all rational thought, and focuses instead on closing that gap, moans and mewls and cries pouring freely from her lips. Her pace picks up, almost doubling. It must be a wanton, downright immodest sight: her losing every scrap of control, mouth wide open and eyes squeezed shut, keening like an animal, riding Frank, _fucking_ him, and all he can do is watch. Give himself to her.

It doesn’t last much longer. Frantic, Laurel reaches down between her legs, rubbing at her clit furiously, and it only takes a minute of that to launch her out of orbit, tensing on top of him, back arching into a curve as her orgasm hits her. Unable to hold out any longer either, Frank lowers his hands to her hips, grabs her roughly, tugs her forward down onto him, and surrenders himself with a grunt as well, exploding inside her as her walls clench and milk him for every last drop. They come within mere seconds of each other, crying out together in a sort of erotic aria, and it’s so incredibly hot that Laurel has to bite her tongue to keep from screaming. She rides it out on top of him, never letting up with the movements of her hips, until the waves of ecstasy ebb away and she starts going weak, leaning forward to brace herself against his chest once more.

They stay like that for a moment, recovering and panting, before Laurel inhales a deep breath and collapses down onto the pillows next to him. Her breathing is heavy, bare breasts rising and falling rapidly. She’s soaked in sweat and soiled with sex, and she can feel him dribbling out of her, sticky on the insides of her thighs. And she feels better, yeah – _a lot_ better – but there’s still a nagging worry in the back of her mind, refusing to let up, replaying the sight of Frank flirting over and over. It’s not anger, now; it’s more like worry. Fear of losing him to another woman. _Need_ , to have him, forever.

As if sensing that, Frank glances over at her and props himself up on his elbows. He’s still panting, struggling to catch his breath, the cuts on his back bloody from her fingernails, but his eyes are soft and filled to the brim with sincerity.

Before he can open his mouth, however, Laurel speaks first.

“I… I hated that. So much,” she manages between pants. “Watching you with her all night. I just… thought all that was only for me. How you were looking at her, standing so close, and I know it was dumb, but-”

“I’m yours,” is all Frank says, the declaration quiet but emphatic. He moves in closer, pressing his lips to her jawline, sweet and heartfelt. “Only yours. You gotta know that, Laurel. The only reason I did any of that was for the case – and I’ll never do it again, not if you don’t want, not even for Annalise. I’ll never even fucking _look_ at another girl. Promise.”

She presses her lips into a line. “Frank, I… I’m-”

“I’m yours,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “And I’m never gonna stop bein’ yours, okay? Not for a day, or for an hour, or for a _second_.” Frank pauses, then winks at her. “I know who I belong to.”

That draws a laugh from Laurel, and she hums contently, reaching up to brush a finger across his chin. “Mmm. Good.”

The levity relaxes them, lightening the mood, and Frank grins. “Next time though? Ease up on the hickeys. I gotta go to work tomorrow.”

Laurel feigns confusion. “I thought you said you were mine. Don’t you want everyone to know it?”

He gives her a wolfish grin. “Could always just wear a ‘Property of Laurel Castillo’ t-shirt.”

“Oh yeah?” she laughs. “I’ll make you one then.”

“And I’ll wear it with pride.”

She smiles back, reversing their positions all at once and crawling on top of him once more. “And _these_ , too.”

Her lips are at his neck again before Frank can ask what she means, sucking and nipping hard enough to leave marks. Any protests morph into moans on his tongue, and he’s gone the second she feels him harden again against her thigh, as she brands him with her mouth.

Normally, in the morning after a night like this, she’d help him cover any bites left behind with expertly-applied layers of concealer. But tomorrow…

No. Tomorrow she’ll let Frank wear them, proud, uncovered, there for all the world to see – because he’s hers.

All hers.


	4. Role play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because if Coliver get to bang in the lecture hall after hours, so do Flaurel.
> 
> #23, role play.

“Miss Castillo. Didn’t expect to see you here so early.”

The sound of Frank’s footsteps is the only thing to be heard, echoing in the huge, deserted lecture hall as he descends the stairs to the front of the room, where Laurel stands by the table there. The instant his voice sounds out behind her, she spins around, feigning surprise to see him. Her cheeks are flushed already, face burning, and when she sees him she shifts her weight from one leg to another, squirming beneath the intensity of his gaze.

“Uh, yeah,” she murmurs softly, as he comes to a stop before her, one hand in his pocket. “I just had something I was kind of hoping to talk to you about, professor.”

Frank has to struggle not to break character and grin at her, right then, but no – they’re following a script tonight, one Laurel had devised, a fantasy she’d constructed: him, the dashing criminal law professor, briefcase in hand, in a grey waistcoat with his sleeves rolled up; her, the shy, bookish law student, clad in a short plaid skirt, tight purple sweater, and glasses that make her look every bit the infatuated pupil.

He hadn’t hesitated to agree to his; of course he hadn’t. Any chance he gets to fulfill another one of Laurel’s role play fantasies – and believe him, there have been _many_ – he’s sure as hell going to take.

“Yeah?” he says, as he sets down his briefcase, pops it open, and rummages through it, hardly sparing her a glance. “What’s that?”

Laurel licks her lips, folding her arms.

“I’ve been, um, falling behind in class a little, and I messed up pretty bad on our last exam. My GPA’s going to drop if I get a C in here.” Frank glances up at her briefly, gaze impassive. Laurel gulps. “And so I was wondering… if there’s anything I could do for extra credit, maybe?”

He locks his eyes on Laurel and closes his briefcase, giving her a critical glance, eyebrows raised. Something in the air between them shifts, and he circles around the desk slowly like a shark in the water, raising his chin.

“Well,” he tells her, straight-faced, “maybe if you studied harder, and paid attention for once instead of daydreamin’ all the time in here, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Her breath hitches, and she lowers her eyes diffidently, in a way so unlike Laurel it drives him nuts. “I-I do. Study, I mean. And I try to pay attention, every day, but it’s just… Really hard for me to focus, in this class.”

Another step closer. Then two, until he’s practically looming over her, backing her up so that her ass is pressed against the table. Every inch of her is flushed, from her hairline down to her neck, and her pupils are dilated; she’s the embodiment of desire, head to toe, almost trembling with it. He doesn’t have to check to know how wet she must be beneath that little skirts of hers, squeezing her thighs together tighter and tighter with every step he takes, as if trying to stem the yearning between them.

“And why, exactly,” Frank undertones, switching on a predatory look in his eyes, “do you think that is?”

Laurel gulps, hesitating for a moment, before shaking her head. “I don’t know, sir.”

_Sir._ Oh, fuck. That hits him like a kick in the chest, knocks all the wind out of him for a moment, and makes his cock twitch in the front of his slacks until he’s straining and bulging almost painfully against the fabric. He’s never seen anything quite so enticing before in his life: Laurel playing this innocent, bashful creature brimming with forbidden lust, squirming against him, and it makes his head pound, his heartbeat like a drum in his ears. Before he can exercise any more self-control or hold back, Frank moves in at once, pressing his body up against hers, hard enough that Laurel gasps in surprise and places her hands behind her on the table to steady herself.

“I think, Miss Castillo,” he purrs, and leans in to nip lightly at her earlobe, hands dropping to her hips, “that you do.”

His lips migrate to her neck, and her head lolls back slightly to allow him better access, eyelids fluttering shut, lips parting in a gasp, giving in to him so, so easily. She’s so perfectly receptive to his touch, molding herself against his body like clay.

When Laurel finally opens her mouth to speak, her voice is high-pitched, breathy. “No… No, I don’t.”

“Uh uh uh,” he mock-chides, pulling back to look her in the eyes as a smirk plays at his lips. “I think you do. And you didn’t really come here for extra credit, did you?”

He plucks her glasses off her nose, sets them aside on the table, and kisses Laurel before she can answer. The soft sound of surprise she makes against his mouth, coupled with the way she tenses before melting against him, drives him on, makes him drink her up with even more fervor. He places a hand between her knees and urges them apart, letting him move in closer still, feel the press of her pert little breasts harder against his chest. With sharp, precise movements, he hikes her skirt up around her hips, sits her down on top of the table, and dips a hand between her legs, brushing over her thin lace panties – and the instant he feels how wet she is, and hears her mewl against his lips, he freezes.

He’d expected Laurel to be wet, of course, because these scenes always get her off, but he hadn’t expected her to be so fucking unbelievably _soaked_ , so turned on by all this that he can feel his fingers dampening even through her underwear, and heat radiating from her core. Purposefully, he moves up and strokes directly over her clit, feeling the tiny swollen bump over the lace and pausing there briefly to apply pressure to it. Laurel twitches almost violently when he does, yanking her lips away to gasp. Her hips stutter towards him when he draws his fingers back, desperate for that contact again, some kind of stimulation, anything. When Frank moves away to look at her, he finds her with a hazy, hungry look in her eyes, almost shuddering with self-restraint as she tries, doubtlessly, to resist the urge to reach down between her legs with her own fingers and tend to her needs, right here, right in front of him. He thinks he’d go legitimately goddamn insane, if she did.

“Please,” is all she can manage, voice breaking, “Don’t… stop-”

“You didn’t come here for extra credit,” he cuts her off, firmly, trying to ignore the agonizing throbbing of his cock. “Tell me what you _really_ came for.”

Laurel doesn’t answer; she just whimpers again, and Frank doesn’t let the silence linger long between them. Quickly, he reaches out and peels her sweater up and over her head, followed by her blouse beneath it, until she’s clad only in her bra and too-short skirt. Downright weak with desire, she lets him disrobe her without protest, and her hands go for his hair when he leans in to suck at her neck once more, combing through the slick strands.

“You won’t say it?” Frank drawls, an edge of authority in his voice. “How ‘bout I go ahead and tell you, then?”

Laurel opens her mouth to speak, but he continues before she can, speaking in a deep, hypnotic tone, every word even, calm, collected. He’s the epitome of _control_ , though in all honesty he feels like he’s approximately two seconds away from completely losing it, dropping his pants, bending her over the table, and fucking her senseless.

“You came here for me. Because you want me.” Off goes her bra, tumbling down her shoulders, and the instant it’s gone Frank reaches up, takes her nipples into his fingers, and works the hardened nubs between them as he keeps going, until she’s squirming in her seat again. “I watch you during class. I’m observant. You don’t want anyone to notice your little crush, I know. But you can’t hide it from me.”

Laurel just moans; a full-chested, fluttering sound he doesn’t often hear from her. Encouraged, he keeps caressing her nipples, keeps murmuring filthier and filthier things in her ear, like he could make her come just using his voice – and he probably could, given enough time.

“You can’t focus when you watch me. You fantasize about me. You hope no one else notices the way your cheeks flush, the way your breathing speeds up… the way your press your thighs together in your seat, imagine all the things I could do to you. The way you wish you could reach down, spread your legs, and touch yourself right there, right in class, for me.” He’s almost positive Laurel stops breathing, right then. He smirks. “And every day you leave, your panties soaked, heart racing, so wet that I’m all you can think about. You run home. Fuck yourself on your fingers, thinkin’ of me. And you can’t wait for the next class, when you can do it all over again.” Frank pauses, and gulps, steadying his voice, his lips just ghosting against hers. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“No,” she whimpers, and shakes her head, arching forward, trying to touch her lips to his but being thwarted when he pulls back. “N-no, you’re not. I can’t… _think_ about anyone besides you, and… I want you so bad, and-”

“What do you think about?” His grin is wolfish now, his fingers stroking her over her sopping panties and sliding just inside, but always stopping short of actually touching her, and he can tell the indirect stimulation is driving her crazy. “This? Did you fantasize about this, me having you on my desk?” Frank pauses, kissing idly at her jawline as she tilts her head back to allow him better access. “Or me having you _bent over_ my desk?”

Laurel doesn’t answer, at first. She just nods, flushed as red as a tomato, a layer of perspiration glistening on her forehead, lips parted sensuously, and _God_ if they weren’t playing parts right now, Frank would’ve fucked her ages ago and been on round two by now. She’s the picture of lust, his every fantasy come to life right before him, wet between her legs and writhing and begging, and fuck, he’s about five seconds away from coming in his pants like a damn teenager.

Finally, she manages to find her voice. “We can’t, here, someone’ll see-”

“Good,” he rasps, and pushes her panties out of the way abruptly, teasing two fingers around her entrance and feeling her flutter beneath his touch. Her hips buck up for the umpteenth time, as she tries to elevate her whole body off the table and up towards him, to no avail. “Let ‘em. I’ll fuck you in front of the whole class. Have them watch. Listen to the way I make you moan. Make you come, right here in front of all of ‘em. Everyone’ll know. I _want_ them to know.”

Though she moans at the thought, Laurel simultaneously manages a breathless laugh, a glimmer of her real self peeking through for an instant. “I think… that would get you fired, sir.”

Frank doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, in one sudden, rough movement, he pulls Laurel down off the table, spins her around, and bends her over it instead, stealing the laugh right off her tongue and replacing it with a cry of surprise. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask if he’s hurt her; he just peels up her skirt and leans over to speak in her ear, his voice deep, more threatening than seductive.

“Keep quiet, Miss Castillo. We get interrupted, you don’t get what you want.”

Every time he calls her that Laurel shudders, and he hears her breath hitch in her throat again, and she nods. Laurel shifts on her stomach, trying to get comfortable and keep still, but she starts squirming all over again when he reaches his hand inside her panties and glides his hand across her drenched folds, then up higher, to work her clit back and forth. She gives a half-growl of frustration, grabbing onto the edge of the table so hard her knuckles pale, clearly growing weary of foreplay judging by the way her wetness positively spills down her inner thighs, making his fingers slick and sticky.

Frank doesn’t waste much time, after that. He undoes his belt, fumbling with the clasp, and yanking down his zipper, freeing his cock, taking it into hand, and placing it between her quivering folds, just short of slipping inside her, so torturously close to her heat that it almost causes him physical pain. Predictably, Laurel makes a high-pitched little sound of indignation at the feeling, rocking her hips back in search of him, as if to pull him in somehow. A fresh rush of wetness coats his tip when she does, and it takes every ounce of willpower in Frank right then to hold back and feign composure, when really he’s almost shaking with restraint at the sight of Laurel: skirt hiked up, bare ass raised, urging him to mount her from behind.

“So what?” he manages to ask. “You gonna ask me nicel-”

“God, just fucking _fuck_ me already,” she hisses, not content to play along anymore, apparently.

Frank just grins. “If you insist.”

He’s not about to argue with that, not when he’s so close to losing it he can feel his head swimming, so he obeys in one swift thrust, plunging as far into her as he can go, almost bottoming out. Laurel doesn’t even attempt to stifle her moan when he does, and lets it echo shamelessly in the empty lecture hall, reverberating off the rafters and mingling with the sound of his own growl. Frank only stays still for a moment, however, and after it passes, he sets a wild pace, pistoning in and out of her depths, grabbing her hips for leverage, practically drubbing her, and she’s moaning freely and wantonly, the sound like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard in his life.

Her cries alternate in pitch: from high, breathy ones, to low, hoarse ones that come from deep in her chest, as he picks up the pace and fucks her harder, watching his length disappear in and out of her as she takes him, over and over. It’s almost obscene; the rhythm of skin slapping skin, the wet squelching noise where they’re joined, the fucking _sounds_ they both make, like two beasts. And he’s losing it, overcome by the feeling of her walls around him, tight, fitting around his cock so divinely like silk, and he’s so close that his vision is whiting out, and-

But no. He’s not done with this script, tonight.

He’s still got a part to play, as far as he’s concerned, and so it takes everything in him right then to pull out of Laurel, spin her back around to face him, and settle her down onto the table again. The sound she makes when he slides out is almost inhuman, and the feeling of leaving her hurts like hell, the sudden sensation of the cold air on his dick downright fucking agony. They both groan, and Laurel looks furious enough to throttle him, blissed out and pissed off.

Her voice comes out in a choked, growled sob. “Why’d you stop – why’d you-”

The words die on her tongue, however, when Frank reaches down and presses two of his thick fingers inside her instead, taking the place of his cock. They’re slick in mere seconds, enough for him to add a third and curl them in just the right way, slipping further and further inside her, until he finds it – that rough, overly-sensitive spot he knows will drive Laurel off the deep end, make every inch of her come undone, and the way he’ll make her come, make her _gush_ … He applies pressure to it mercilessly, driven on by the thought, and her reaction is immediate: her moans escalate in pitch, and her legs tighten around him, and she starts making sounds, low throaty _oh’s_ and _ah’s_ , that let him know he’s hit gold.

“You want that extra credit?” he almost snarls the words. “Come. _Hard_. All over my hand. All over this _desk_.”

Laurel pants half-hysterically, shaking her head. “No – no, I can’t, don’t, it’ll… make a mess, I-”

But he doesn’t let up, driving his fingers in and out viciously, so fast he can hear her walls suctioning wetly around them. “You can’t help it, that it feels so good. I’m makin’ you…”

“God – _God_ , no-”

“Come. _Now_ , Miss Castillo.”

That’s all it takes for Laurel. She tenses, and throws her head back, and with a sound like a mixture of a sob and a groan, she lets go, spiraling off the edge. She soaks his hand in a hot burst; his wrist, the table beneath her, like only he can make her do, and watching Laurel come like that, watching her gush so hard her thighs quiver, so hard that her face contorts in ecstasy, so hard that she blubbers and weeps, her words nonsensical… It nearly does Frank in, too. Before she’s even had time to recover, he slides his fingers out and lets his cock take their place once more, and he fucks her through her orgasm as the waves build and crest, prolonging it for her as long as he possibly can. She’s even wetter now than before, so wet he doesn’t know how it’s humanly possible; so wet she can probably hardly even feel him – but then Laurel opens her eyes, looking well and truly fucked, and gives him a loopy little smile as she comes down, hints of herself shining through the mask she’d put on tonight, and he knows she does feel him. She always does.

“Come inside me,” she mutters in his ear, reaching her hands down to squeeze his ass, reciting one last whispered line. “I’ve wondered… how it would feel for so long. I wanna feel you…”

It’s all too much. His orgasm is bubbling underneath the surface of his skin, careening toward him like a freight train. Laurel had come on command, at the drop of a hat, all over him. Now she’s asking him to come inside her, _fill_ her, right where she can feel him, and _fuck_ , that does him in. He’s always prided himself on having kickass stamina, but after this, and taking in the sight of Laurel now, he’s not sure how he lasted more than a few _seconds_. So he buries his face into her throat and comes with a growl, spilling inside her just as her cunt stops fluttering and clenching in the wake of her own climax. Laurel gasps when he does, as if still playing her part, feigning shock to feel him come inside her, messy and hot, marking her as his territory. Claiming her, in the most intimate way.

They stay like that for a minute or so: him still buried inside her, as they both try to catch their breaths, while Laurel strokes his hair idly with one hand. Finally, Frank manages to come to his senses and pulls out, tucking himself away, then leaning in to press a kiss to her lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters after he moves back, rather inarticulately, and wipes his damp fingers off on his slacks. “Jesus, that was hot.”

She laughs breathlessly. “Best one yet.”

“Yeah?” Frank smirks, pecking her on the lips again. “Even better than ‘Sexy prosecutor extracts confession from naughty criminal?’ Or… ‘Boss ravishes handsome law associate on her desk after hours?’”

Laurel scoffs. “Okay, if you don’t stop coming up with porno titles for the scenes we do, I’m going to break up with you.”

“Aw c’mon. Don't pretend like that's not your favorite part – and besides, you’d never,” he purrs. “’Specially after I just made you come your brains out like that.”

“Yeah, and _that_ wasn’t part of the plan,” she chides, glancing down at the little puddle between her legs, dripping down off the table onto the floor. She considers it briefly, apparently not at all fazed, before reaching over to grab her blouse. “The janitor is gonna wonder what the hell happened here.”

Frank shrugs, nonchalant. “Clean-up’s their job, right?”

“I'm not sure that applies to body fluids left from illicit sex after hours.”

Frank ignores that. “Anyway, speakin’ of the janitor, he should be making his rounds soon. Every forty-five minutes. So we gotta scram.”

As if she’d hoped to go another round, a look of disappointment flashes in Laurel’s eyes, but she gets to her feet nonetheless, knees shaking, stance still unsteady from the force of her orgasm. He helps hold her up until she’s stable again, and as soon as she’s slipped her clothes back on, he reaches for his briefcase and takes a step toward the door, with Laurel following at his side. With mischief in his eyes, Frank reaches down and rests his hand on her ass as they walk out. He gives it a firm pat just as they step outside the doorway, prompting her to yelp in surprise, then glare at him.

“And for the record, Miss Castillo,” he teases, raising his arm, curling it around her shoulders, and drawing her close, “you _definitely_ earned that extra credit in my book.”


	5. Praise kink, face-sitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a number, but needed to be written. For the good of humanity. Trust me.

If there’s one thing Frank Delfino is committed to, it’s pleasing the women in his life.

It’s instinctive. Has been ever since he was a kid, like he was born with the impulse in his bones. It started growing up under the iron thumb of his ma, who took bullshit from no one – least of all her husband, and her sons. The moment he stepped out of line, screwed up, even _breathed_ the wrong way, he knew he was in for it, and so he didn’t. Didn’t screw up. He was a good son, always took pride in making his ma happy, seeing the proud look on her face; when he’d graduated high school, gotten into that shitty community college on the other side of town. When he’d gotten a job for Annalise, and made something out of his life. Become a man. A _real_ man, with a real job.

She’d been so proud of him. He’d made her happy, and he likes doing that, because she’s his ma, his family, and she means the world to him, and he’d do anything for her.

Then came Annalise. Bonnie. He’d do anything for them, too. Annalise had been hard on him, at first. Hard on them both. But then, when he’d first started proving himself useful, and those first few glimmers of pride had poked through Annalise’s icy exterior… She’d eased up. And suddenly, taking care of things for her became less a way to avoid being screamed at, and more a way for him to make her happy, because he’d liked that. Lived for those tiny breadcrumbs she would toss at him when he did good; never wholehearted, gushing, flowery compliments, but short, terse ones, always in the style of Annalise. _You did well_ , or _I knew there was a reason I kept you around all this time_ , or sometimes, on her good days, even the elusive _Thank you_.

He owed her. Still owes her. Serves her, like a knight serves his queen; like a dog to his master, waiting at her beck and call, even if all he’ll get in the end is a pat on the head. Pleasing Annalise is one of his sole purposes in life – not only to keep his job, but to make her happy. Bonnie, too. She’s like his sister, and he’d go to the ends of the earth to take care of her, take care of them both; their twisted, fucked-up little work-family. It isn’t that he’s a people-pleaser – no, he’s not the kind to grovel on his knees, not some weak, sniveling, pathetic guy who’ll do anything to keep everyone happy.

He takes care of the women in his life, that’s all. Keeps them happy.

All of them. Laurel, especially. And it’s times like this – when he has Laurel in his bed, legs spread wide, soft thighs splayed apart with his face burrowed between them – that he takes that commitment really _damn_ seriously.

He isn’t talking. He has far better things to do with his mouth right now, because he eats pussy like a fucking champ, and if there was an Olympics for going downtown he’d have so many gold medals hanging around his neck that he would barely be able to stand. He’s always had a thing for this; a talent. He plays her body like Beethoven, masterful and finessed. He loves it. Eating Laurel out gets him off more than pretty much anything else in the world, and he can’t ever bring himself to understand why any guy would be a dick and refuse to do _this_ , like it’s somehow demeaning to get on his knees, like it’s some chore to make his lady come her brains out. It isn’t.

It abso-fucking-lutely _is not_ a chore.

“ _Frank_.” Her voice is a moan that shudders on the way out, as her hips stutter forward, bucking into the delicious heat of his mouth. “Frank – oh, oh _fuck_ -”

His jaw is slick with her juices, his beard equally soaked. She’s already come once, so deliciously sensitive and raw in the aftermath that it won’t take much to bring her off again. He can feel every tremor and quake of her body; they pass through her and carry onto his tongue, and he loves it, loves how her thighs quiver, how she unravels like a spool of thread beneath his mouth. This isn’t Laurel, the breathtaking creature displayed before him now. She turns into someone else entirely when she loses control: swearing like a sailor, so crass she’d make the angels weep, downright rabid for his touch. And beautiful. So, so fucking _beautiful_.

“God, I – _ah_.” She gasps, reaching down to grip his slick hair when he rakes his teeth lightly across her clit. Every single one of the nerve endings there jumps and sparks with electricity when he does, and she twitches at the sensation. “Fuck, y-you’re, just, Frank, I – please, don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop, it’s so good, so good…”

That’s part of what he loves, too: when she tells him how good he is. How much she likes this. _Praises_ him. He’s always been a fan of positive reinforcement, whether it be in the form of Laurel’s words or her moans or nonsensical blubbering phrases – it’s all the same, and as long as he’s making her scream one way or another, he knows he’s doing his job, pleasing her, keeping her happy. No sir – this isn’t a chore for him, never is and never has been, because she’s his girl, his favorite meal, and he’d be perfectly content to eat her out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day for the rest of his life. He’s kidding, of course – but also not. If he could, he’d do it without a second thought, but unfortunately, subsisting solely on Laurel isn’t humanly possible.

It’s a shame, really.

Because she’s honey. Ambrosia of the gods up on Mount Olympus. Water, to a thirsty man; life, to a dying man, and he drinks her down and laps up her slick like his life depends on it, and it _does_ , because he’s sure that stopping now would kill the both of them. For a moment Frank thinks about pausing, drawing back to take a look at her. He can imagine how she looks: mouth dropped open, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, nipples hardened into pebbles, folds glistening and pretty pink clit thrumming with desire. She’s close again, her pussy clenching around nothing, agonizingly empty. It’s obscene, the sounds she’s making now. Downright immodest. Shameless.

But Laurel doesn’t care. Neither does he, and in fact-

He wants more. _Needs_ more. Wants to wring every single moan and cry and gasp he can from her throat, make her come until she can’t speak, until she can’t remember her own goddamn _name_ – and thankfully, he has a go-to strategy for that. With a feral grin, Frank moves back, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand, though she’s all over him and it does almost no good. He’s shirtless, wearing only his slacks, his cock bulging uncomfortably against them, straining the fabric as if on the brink of ripping right through. A lesser man might drop his pants and fuck her right now – but no. He has self-control. He can be patient. _Italian stallion_ , Laurel had jokingly called him once, and he’d bound and fucking determined to live up to that nickname, hold back, let her ride him when the time is right.

And the time is right, now, but not for that. _For this_.

With Laurel watching, a mix of fury and something like actual physical pain contorting her features as she pants hysterically, he makes his way up from the end of the bed, relieving the pressure on his knees, and lies down. Frank tugs her sideways onto him in one swift motion. She goes to straddle him almost immediately, trying to line herself up with his cock – but he gives a low grunt and shakes his head, tugging her forward by the hips so that she’s hovering over his mouth instead. She’s so wet that she nearly drips down onto him, and seeing her from this new angle – from below, face to face with her folds, with the silky-smooth shaven mound between her legs, and her kissable little clit… He stops and takes it in like a Catholic at adoration, looking upon the most holy thing he’s ever seen in his life. Every inch of her body is made of gentle, luscious curves, and he reaches around, eyes dancing, to grab at her ass, placing his hands firmly on both cheeks to anchor her to him.

“I-” The word bursts out with a groan – not a moan, a _groan_ , so frantic and hoarse that he can tell she’s teetering on the edge of a cliff, holding on with one finger as her grip slips by the second. “Frank… _Frank_ , just-”

In lieu of words, he gives Laurel her answer by yanking her down abruptly, opening his mouth, and enveloping her cunt with greedy lips, not wanting to let a single drop of her go to waste. Downright boneless with want, Laurel pitches her hands forward so that they’re resting on the bed just behind his head, propping her up and keeping her from tumbling down into a sweaty, moaning mess.

“Oh God!” Her voice is a reedy yelp mixed with a sob. She’s shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, threatening to collapse atop him. “I… I-I’m, _fuck_ …”

He grins against her folds, as she delves down onto him. His lips suckle at her clit. He fucks into her with his tongue, feeling the silkiness of her walls around him, so burning hot and full of need that he can taste it. Desperate as she is, Laurel picks up the pace, grinds her pussy down against him harder. She’s so soaked that he’s having a bit of trouble catching his breath. She’s so soaked that he thinks he could drown in her, and thinks that that wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. He’s always had a thing for this, too. Letting her sit on his face. Giving her the ride of her life. She loves it. Loves the way his beard scratches at her thighs, bristles her clit. Loves feeling him on her.

But that isn’t the matter at hand. The matter at hand is Laurel, and how close she is, and how all he can really see from down under is darkness mixed with flashes of pink and her glistening nether lips. Even the sounds of her cries are slightly muffled as Laurel picks up the pace, keening wildly, wailing like a banshee as she fucks herself on his mouth. She’s close. He knows it, can tell by the gentle spasming of her cunt, the increased pitch of her cries like an erotic aria and the erratic movements of her hips. Still, he doesn’t ease up. He’s relentless, flicking his tongue in long, hard strokes, at her clit, across her cunt, licking figure-eights and curly-cues on her slippery flesh with one goal and one only in mind.

And he’s right. She is close – because hardly a second later, Laurel screams. Not cries out. Not moans. _Screams_. A full-chested shriek that he’s pretty damn sure his neighbors can hear, and he hopes they do. It half-sounds like his name, but mostly sounds like senseless sobbing and blubbering. Every muscle in her body tenses up, taut as a bowstring – because with him, when Laurel comes, she _comes_. It rattles through her like an earthquake, sends her spiraling out of orbit. When she comes she comes all over him, gushing into his mouth, salty and tangy and impossibly sweet – and he wishes he could see her properly right now, _God_ he does. But hearing her is enough, he figures, and he’ll have to settle for that, as her cries decrescendo and grow softer and drop down an octave. He almost comes in his pants, as he listens to her. The fact that he hasn’t thus far must be some kind of miracle of human anatomy.

Finally, when Laurel’s mind returns to her body and she comes down from her high, she finally moves off of him, falling down weakly at his side, half-catatonic. She’s soaked with sweat, face beet-red, hair plastered to her forehead with perspiration and weak from the exertion. Her legs shake, as unsteady as a newborn foal. And Frank is soaked, too – but not by sweat. By her. She’d coated nearly his entire face, dampened his beard, all the way up to the tip of his nose; he’ll taste her all day after this, no doubt about it.

And he loves it. Thinks that, in the whole entire goddamn universe, there isn’t a thing he loves more.

“God, that was good,” Laurel manages to choke out, propping herself up on one elbow and turning to face him. Her eyes are hazy, glazed-over with post-coital exhaustion. She leans down, pecking him on the lips and pressing a hand to his bare chest. “You’re so… _so_ good at that.”

Finally, for the first time in what feels like forever, he speaks, his voice coming out deep and husky. He’s breathing like a deep-sea diver coming up for air, nearly lightheaded from swimming in her.

“Only good?”

“Amazing,” she breathes, then laughs. “I love you. So much.”

This is another side of Laurel he loves. Blissed out. Sleepy. Words falling from her lips before she can think them through, but he knows she means them all the same. She’s so stunning right now that he feels his heart seize up just the slightest bit – because he’s lucky. He’s so fucking lucky, the luckiest man on earth, and he makes sure he never forgets it, never stops trying to please her, never lets her forget how special she is.

How much he goddamn _adores_ her.

“Love you too,” he says, still breathless, and raises an eyebrow. “Beard’s gonna need one hell of a washing, after that.”

She chuckles, brushing her tangled hair out of her eyes. “Sorry.”

Laurel leans in and kisses him, tasting herself on his tongue, on his beard, the short, coarse hairs drenched by her. She’s _all over_ him and he doesn’t regret it for even a second – even though it’d made one hell of a mess.  

“Nah,” he says, breaking into an easy grin. “Don’t apologize. You’re the best meal I had all day.”

She scoffs, smacking him lightly on his chest. “You’re horrible.”

“Mmm,” he hums noncommittally, making his way off the bed, undoing his belt, dropping his pants, before climbing back atop her. “Don’t I know it?”

Frank doesn’t waste much time after that. With his eyes locked on hers, he positions his cock between her folds and sink into her as deep as he can go, burying himself up to the hilt. He won’t last long; he’s so close from before that he can feel his orgasm like a hum in his bones, the pent-up pressure inside him begging to be released. Laurel’s too spent and sensitive to come again now, but she combs her fingers through his hair tenderly nonetheless, lets him bury his face into her throat and moan away. It almost beats eating her out, being inside her like this.

 _Almost_. Not quite, though.

Just as he’s about to burst, however, Frank pulls out, drawing on some willpower he’d had no idea existed. It’s all a blur after that, his mind clouded by the haze of sex. He pulls back, looming over Laurel where she lays before him, spread-eagled and as stunning as he’s ever seen, and strokes himself until he comes, the passage of his hand lubricated by the wetness she’d left on his cock. His come lands in spurts on her belly, and then lower, down between her legs, sullying her clean flesh, the most satisfying sight in the world. Giving him a little grin, Laurel reaches down and strokes herself lazily as she watches him. Lust and mischief flash behind her eyes, but they’re muted somewhat; she’s tired, tonight, and she’s done all she can – but she touches herself for him even so, just to make him come harder at the sight, until he’s emptied himself onto her and moved back down to settle in at her side.

“Good?” he asks, the word strained as he struggles to slow his breathing.

“Mmm hmm.” Laurel nods, eyelids starting to flutter shut. “’Course. You’re always good to me.”

He loves hearing those words, most of all, more than anything. With a grin, he kisses his way down her stomach and licks her clean, then makes his way back up to kiss her hard on the mouth, the taste of themselves mingling on their tongues, as close to being _one_ as he figures they’ll ever get. Their sweat-sticky limbs are tangled like vines, so much so that Frank almost can’t tell where his body ends and hers begins. Laurel hums contently against his lips once more, and when he pulls away she’s the picture of satisfaction, looking well and truly fucked just like she should, and he knows he’s done his job.

Because if there’s one thing Frank Delfino is committed to, it’s pleasing the women in his life – and Laurel Castillo in particular.


	6. Shower sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during 1x09, the missing scene between Laurel at Frank's apartment and her at the office, wearing one of his shirts.
> 
> #7 shower/tub sex. Also #53 hurt/comfort.

It’s 6:49 AM, and Laurel Castillo has never been so tired before in her life.

But hey. She figures chopping up and burning a dead body can do that to a girl.

She’s been sitting on Frank’s couch beside him for what feels like forever when the first few rays of sunlight finally start to seep through his blinds, casting golden lines across the floor and coffee table. She knows why she’d come here; he said he’d do anything for her, and as guilty as she feels about using taking advantage of that now to get rid of the trophy, she knows it’s necessary. It’s necessary, and though she tries to tell herself that she _only_ came here for that last night, she knows it would be a lie. She’d come here almost on autopilot, eyes stinging with ashes, smelling like smoke and charred flesh and not knowing any other place to go.

She’d come here for _him_. For Frank. To hear Frank’s voice, see his face. She thinks that he may be the only thing grounding her, now that she’s a killer. Keeping her sanity from slipping entirely.

The sudden pinging of her phone, heralding the daybreak, stirs her from that reverie.

Laurel pulls it out of her bag and looks at the lockscreen, only to find Bonnie’s name flashing across it. _Come to the office_ , is all it says, and Laurel’s stomach goes sour immediately.

Before she can start panicking, however, Frank, still clad in his white t-shirt and boxers, furrows his brow and looks down at her phone too. “Who’s that?”

“Bonnie,” she croaks. _The police. They’ve found out. Or Annalise has. Something’s wrong. Somebody knows something._

“What does she want?”

“She wants us at the office,” Laurel mutters, grabbing her bag and rising to her feet. “I should go. I – crap, I’m never gonna have enough time to get back to my place, and-” _And I need to get out of these clothes. I need to_ burn _them._

She’s never been so tired before in her life, and she’s never been so filthy, either. There’s a grey layer of ashes and grime coating her face, lips, clothes. There’s dirt under her fingernails, mud caked on the bottoms of her boots. The earthy stench of smoke and lighter fluid follows her wherever she goes. She’s never needed a shower more; she needs to scrub her skin until it’s red and raw, in the hopes that somehow, some way, she’ll be able to erase last night from her memory. She just needs to be _clean_.

“Laurel-” he starts, but she heads for the door, shaking her head.

“I need to change, and shower, and-”

Frank steps in front of the door before she can reach for it. “You can shower here, okay? And change. I got a pair of your jeans lyin’ around here somewhere. Washed ‘em and everything.”

She tries to fight back the tears she can feel burning her eyes, seeping through the cracks of her façade faster than she can patch them up. “No, really, it’s fine, and… Just – please, Frank, I’m already going to be late-”

“I know,” he urges, gently. “Take a shower here, and I’ll give you a lift to the office after. Save time.”

There’s something genuine in his eyes – genuine affection, more than she thinks he’d show for just another student of the month. It makes her heart stutter a bit, twist and turn and do a somersault in her chest in the oddest way, like she’s at the top of a rollercoaster ready to drop down an enormous hill – but no. After last night, after Sam, and after the appearance of his girlfriend… Even _considering_ something more with Frank is out of the question. She has more important things to worry about – namely, the fact that, as of last night, she’s complicit in a murder, with not-so-figurative blood on her hands. Yet the way he’s looking at her, eyes soft, all his sharp edges gone from him somehow, and replaced with softness too…

It gives her pause. And so she stops, lets out a breath, and nods before she can think twice, giving in.

“Okay.” She clears her throat, shifting her weight from leg to leg. “Fine.”

Exhaustion weighing her down, Laurel sighs and turns back into his apartment. She’s almost too tired to stand, but somehow she manages to drop her bag on the floor and amble her way into Frank’s bathroom, all cream-colored walls and pristine white tile floors and gleaming porcelain, with a shimmering glass shower door. Frank trails behind her, stopping briefly in one of his closets to retrieve an extra set of towels for her, then appearing in the doorway and holding them out to her. Laurel takes them without a word, and looks down just in time to see that she’s tracked mud on his floor, smearing stains of brown across it.

“Sorry,” she mutters, trying not to sway on her feet from fatigue. “I got mud on the floor.”

Finally, after hanging back for a moment, Frank steps in and comes to stand before her. There’s an air of caution about him, mixed with that same gentleness from before, and _God_ , he’s only making this harder on her, looking at her so reverently, so tenderly, because last night she cut up and burned a corpse, and she’s not worth half what he thinks she is. She doesn’t deserve his tenderness. She doesn’t deserve _anything_.

He just shrugs, unfazed. “Nothin’ a little elbow grease can’t fix.”

Laurel gulps. She blinks, and in that brief flash of darkness behind her eyes, suddenly, she sees fire; fire, in the middle of the woods underneath the eerie silver glow of the moon, and in the fire is a body, and Michaela is off trembling in the corner and Connor is laughing like a maniac, and _fuck_ , she’s going to be sick. _Snap out of it, Laurel. Wake up._

Frank notices the distraught look on her face, notices how she still hasn’t taken off a single piece of her clothing, and frowns. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she supplies weakly, shaking her head. “I’m fine. Just tired. I…”

Frank must know she’s lying. Must know this is more than her being _tired_. But if he knows, or suspects, he doesn’t ask; all he does is take a tentative step towards her, eyeing her like she’s a scared animal who might bolt at any second, and reach for her coat, ostensibly to take it off.

“Here. Lemme help.”

Laurel doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Instead, she just lets him hook his hands into the sleeves of her coat and tug until it goes tumbling off, landing in a grey heap on the floor. The instant it does, however, she remembers herself and moves back, licking her dry, cracked lips.

“I’m fine,” she repeats. “I got it.”

Nodding, he backs off. Laurel braces herself against the sink and yanks her muddy boots off, setting them aside and trying, once more, to stay steady on her feet. But the lack of sleep – coupled with the fact that she hasn’t eaten in more than twelve hours, and now, after last night, has little to no desire to eat ever again – makes her weak, shaky, her legs like crumbling pillars threatening to collapse beneath her at any moment. She’d held it together all night. Played the role of the strong one. Instructed the others to turn off their brains – and she had. She’d _turned off_ her brain, flipped that switch, booted down into some state that was barely human; was more mechanical than anything, going through the motions programmed into her code.

Only now her brain has turned itself back on, and she’s human again. Painfully human. Starving, with hunger pains roiling in her belly. Exhausted, to the point of dropping. And now she’s alone with Frank, and she can’t keep her mask from slipping, though she tries desperately – but she’s too tired to try. Too tired to do anything but _be human_ again.

Laurel stumbles, after pulling off her second boot, and almost falls. With cat-like reflexes, Frank reaches out to steady her, a look of concern on his face.

“I got you,” he tells her, then exhales sharply. “You’re tired. And upset. Lemme help.”

“I’m not a little kid,” Laurel protests half-heartedly. “I don’t need-”

“You do,” Frank interrupts, voice low but firm. “You do need, and look – I get it. This act. I get that you wanna be the strong one all the time. But lemme take care of you. For once.” He softens his voice, deflating slightly. “Just let somebody take care of you, Laurel.”

_Let somebody take care of you._ She’s not sure she’s ever heard words so comforting before in her life. For a moment she doesn’t answer, just looks at him: blue eyes fixed intently on her, hair tousled in the most disarming way, forehead patterned with worried creases. The sight of him makes her breath hitch momentarily, heat rising to her cheeks.

She shouldn’t. Should push him away. Shut the door. But in her state, drained of all her will to fight and stand on her own, all Laurel has the energy to do is nod, and sigh.

“Okay.”

Frank doesn’t move, for a moment. He just stands there, letting the words sink in, before finally chancing a step towards her; tentative and cautious, as if trying not to spook her and send her running. He reaches down, grabbing the bottom of her grey turtleneck and pausing, looking to her for approval before daring to tug it up and off. Laurel considers, one last time, shrugging him off and doing it herself – because she isn’t a kid, and she can undress _herself_ perfectly fine – but suddenly she’s too tired even to lift her arms above her head, every muscle in her body rubbery, achy.

So she gives in, and lets go. She nods, almost imperceptibly, to let him know it’s all right.

Getting the signal, Frank pulls her turtleneck off, leaving her only in her bra and jeans. He’s the picture of tenderness, eyes wide, hands ghosting across her body as he circles his arms around her back, unclasping her bra next. It makes her throat tighten, being this close to him, so close that her breasts brush his chest ever so slightly, even though every last part of her brain that controls logical decision making is telling her that this is a _bad idea,_ in every sense of the word. But her cheeks flush pinker before she can help it, and when he undoes her bra and lets it fall around her shoulders, baring her breasts to him, she gulps. His touch sends sparks shooting through her veins, making her pores open and pushing sweat up through them, until her forehead is glistening with perspiration and there’s a delicious, desperate, unwanted-and-wanted throbbing between her legs.

She doesn’t stop him.

Somehow, by some miracle, Frank keeps his eyes fixed ahead, doesn’t drop them down to ogle her breasts. Almost robotically he goes for her jeans next, the knees of which are muddy, far dirtier than they should be from just partying at the bonfire, but he doesn’t mention that. He just undoes the button and pulls down the zipper and crouches down to tug them off her legs, so close to her groin that Laurel can’t help but shift her weight from one leg to the other. Frank motions for her to step out of them, and she does, kicking them aside.

She’s clad in only her panties, now, with a frighteningly minimal amount of fabric separating her skin from his. She fights the urge, inexplicably, to cover herself though Frank has seen her like this dozens of times before, and he seems to notice her trepidation, because he pauses where he is, crouched next to her, and looks up, seeking permission to continue.

“Good?” Frank asks, non-threateningly, with no lust or desire or anything even vaguely _sexual_ about him. He’s not trying to seduce her – not on purpose, anyway – but his voice, buttery-smooth and deep, makes her melt regardless.

He may not be trying, but _God_ is it working.

“Yeah,” she breathes, then gulps, folding her arms over her chest and covering her nipples.

She’s not tired, not anymore. She’s so violently awake that every nerve ending in her body seems to be able to feel ten times more than it could before, tingling at even the slightest promise of Frank’s touch.

All the blood on her body feels like it rushes to her head when he hooks his hands into the sides of her white lace panties and pulls them down too. Spots form in front of her vision, and she tries to convince herself that she’s faint because of the low blood sugar and exhaustion, but she knows better, knows that’s only half-true. Frank, for his part, seems relatively oblivious to it all, though she knows he surely must be seeing the changes in her, must notice the undeniable redness of her cheeks, the watering of her eyes, the quickening of her breathing. He’s always been able to read her body like a master conductor does his orchestra, perfectly in tune with every instrument and able to listen to them effortlessly. Hear the tiniest flaws, the tiniest changes, the moment something goes out of tune. The twinges of her muscles are like violins, her heart a drum beating ten times too fast. And he notices. He _must_.

And she wants him. Knows she shouldn’t. Knows she _does_.

But Laurel doesn’t make a move to kiss him, even when he rises to stand; she clings to the last few scraps of her common sense, and tries to convince herself that there is nothing sexual about this situation – when absolutely _everything_ about it is overtly sexual, in every possible way. Frank doesn’t pause to savor the sight of her naked body; he just reaches in and turns on his shower, filling the room with hot steam and the pleasant hissing of the water.

Then, he turns back to her, deferring to her for the next step. “This it? I stop here, or…?”

“You, uh,” she mutters. “Could you…? I just… I-”

He nods, voice dripping with sincerity. “’Course.”

Frank strips quickly and unceremoniously, pulling off his shirt and boxers. Laurel turns away before she can catch a glimpse of his body, wanting, at least, to maintain some semblance of decency, and steps into the shower. The warm spray of water hits her in a soothing stream, making her muscles release their tension, defrosting the ice that’d seemingly crystallized in her bones overnight. Her shoulders loosen up, eyes closing. It isn’t long before she’s soaked, and when she ducks forward into the spray her hair wets through, clinging to the sides of her face in dripping strands. She basks in the divine sensation for a moment, until she hears Frank step in behind her, sliding the door shut. When she does, she turns her head back to look at him, and the instant she does, she regrets it.

Because he’s even hotter like this – buck naked, his toned chest soaked and gleaming, hair flopping forward, damp from the water – and it takes her breath away, makes her face forward immediately and hug her arms to her chest. _Hot_ isn’t the right word for Frank, right then. Handsome. Almost _beautiful_ , body sculpted and chiseled like a god, with eyes of tenderness and a feather-like touch that belies his imposing stature. Her heart stutters, and she thinks it gives out and stops entirely for a few seconds before starting up again, pumping her flood fast through her veins.

It stops, once more, when Frank reaches over onto the beige shower shelf attached to the wall, lathers his large hands in a bar of soap, and places them on her arms, coating them in suds and rubbing gently up and down, as if testing the waters, gauging her comfort level. Laurel tenses, almost involuntarily. It certainly isn’t out of disgust or aversion – more surprise, than anything – but Frank seems to interpret it as such, and stops for a second.

“I got this,” he reminds Laurel, lowly. It almost kills her. “Trust me.”

She does. Trust him. Too much for her own good, probably – but right then, she’s sure there isn’t anything better in the world than this. Than his touch. Than _him_. If this isn’t for her own good, then she doesn’t know what could be, because _he’s_ so good.

Frank is so close that she can feel the firmness of his chest; she isn’t even looking at him, but just the gentle press of his body from behind is enough to drive her nuts, make her squirm. She’s naked as the day she was born, and so is he, and it strikes her how simultaneously non-sexual and sexual this feels: him washing her, scrubbing her clean as the water rains down on both of them from above. He works diligently, bidding her now and then to move or lift her arms, but staying almost totally silent otherwise. He avoids her breasts and the mound between her legs, as if trying to keep this as innocent as possible – when it isn’t, not at all, because her mind started wandering long ago and is now off in forbidden territory, past the point of no return.

Her whole body seems to throb with one singular beat. She can feel her pulse fluttering in her clit, and she’s wet, now – in a way that most definitely _isn’t_ just from the shower water. Her bones are humming, droning and buzzing, like the song of crickets at night, and still Frank works unaware, washing her clean, his hands huge but gentle and touching her like some holy idol. Slowly but surely, the dirt and ashes rinse off her face and run off of her body in grey streams, pooling in the shower drain beneath them.

He reaches for the shampoo next – his shampoo. It doesn’t smell like much of anything, but there’s something so comforting about him using his own shampoo on her that Laurel can’t quite explain. He squirts a bit into his palm, works it into a lather, then rubs it into her scalp; slowly, making sure not to hurt her or pull her hair. It isn’t long before she’s leaning back against him almost unintentionally, weak with desire, a wave of exhaustion hitting her. The feeling of his fingers working through her hair, caressing her scalp… It’s hypnotic. She loses herself in it, and only comes back down when Frank pulls away, urging her to step forward and rinse.

So Laurel does. Finally, she turns to face him, leaning her head back beneath the water and letting it wash through, carrying the last few suds out of her hair. Her eyes are closed, chin tilted upward, but she can feel Frank watching her from where he stands only feet away, his eyes on her as if he were touching her, taking in the sight of her body: wet, naked, glistening as water droplets bead and tumble down her skin. She knows how she looks. She isn’t stupid, and not in the mood to practice any kind of feigned humility. She has no humility left in her. No modesty, either.

She’s not upset about that. In fact, she really doesn’t give a fuck about modesty, because right then, as she finishes rinsing out her hair and steps forward out of the spray, and opens her eyes, she sees him.

And Laurel has never seen such a look of desire and total, utter _need_ on someone’s face before in her life.

Frank’s pupils are dilated, huge and dark. She’s trying to avert her eyes, but she can see he’s hard, and he looks conflicted, ashamed, almost – because that’s not what they’re here for right now, or at least not what they’re _supposed_ to be here for. Laurel can see the silent battle raging behind his eyes. He doesn’t want to take advantage of her like this, when she’s distraught and exhausted. She came to him seeking comfort and he asked her to trust him, and he doesn’t want to break that trust, but God help him, he wants her. She can see it, plain as day – and up until now she somehow didn’t realize how easy Frank is to read when it comes to her. Every single emotion is clear, every doubt, every flash of lust in those eyes of his that hide everything and nothing at the same time.

As if in a trance, Laurel takes a step towards him. Then two. Three. When she stops she doesn’t make a move; just stands there, certain he’s about to kiss her, before Frank finally clears his throat, looks away, then reaches out for a washcloth resting nearby to resume cleaning her instead.

There’s a twist in her stomach when he does. A palpable twinge of disappointment. Of _desire_ , as it coils hot in her belly like a snake and slithers inexorably lower, down between her legs. But she doesn’t protest, or try to move closer. She simply raises her head to meet his eyes, and stands there in silence as Frank raises the washcloth to her cheek, rubbing lightly. Some of the ashes there had washed off before, but there are enough left that the clean white cloth comes away dirty, and so he keeps going, gaze locked on her, washing her, and it feels like he’s speaking although he’s barely said a word since he began.

He doesn’t need to. His touch, and the affection warming his eyes, says all there is to say.  

Frank scrubs like that for a minute, until her face is clean, and only then does he stop – but he doesn’t pull away, and almost instinctively, she turns her face into his palm, seeking shelter with a sigh. Her eyelids flutter shut, briefly, and when she meets his eyes again she finds Frank staring at her, as intently as ever. For a moment she just takes a look at him: water spilling down the sides of his face, beard and hair soaked, tall, towering body looming over her. He seems like he wants to say something, opening his mouth, half-forming a word, before swallowing it back down and letting it die on his tongue.

Sensing that, Laurel speaks for him.

“Frank…”

Her voice is soft, hardly more than a shaky whisper muffled by the shower. Something in the sound of her voice seems to break him, and he moves closer, and she thinks for a moment she can feel him nearly trembling with restraint, going mad giving her chaste touches when it’s becoming clearer and clearer by the second that what he wants is most definitely _not_ chaste in any way, shape, or form.

Then, abruptly, steely determination hardens in his eyes, glinting, sharp as flint. He makes up his mind; she can see the gears in his brain click into place, and when they do his expression shifts.

And all at once, before she can blink, Frank has tugged her against him, lowered his face to hers, and seized her lips in a smoldering kiss.

She can’t remember ever being kissed so _hard_. Their first kiss had been hard too, hot and needy, mouths colliding in some misguided fight for control, but this… This is different, because when Frank kisses her this time he pours every ounce of himself into her, and she drinks it up eagerly, making a soft noise of satisfaction against his mouth, reaching up to curl an arm around him. Their mouths mash roughly, tongues tangling, lips molding together flawlessly, like he was made for her and she for him – and she thinks she was.

Made for him. Made for _this_.

Frank pulls away, after hardly a moment. He looks like he expects her to move away, shrug him off, say this is all a mistake, and that’s she’s still furious at him for last night – but she does none of those things because suddenly, everyone else has melted away. Sam. Annalise. Sasha. The shower water cleanses them from her thoughts and sends them swirling down the drain, until they’re just a distant memory; a thought her foggy mind can only half-remember.

She shouldn’t do this. She should be mad at him, for being the cheating, womanizing bastard he is. But all at once, here with Frank, there’s no world that exists beyond these four walls for her; they’re insulated in this little bubble of the universe where time stands still, and no one else exists but the two of them. It’s like they’ve chipped off their own tiny piece of time here and taken it for themselves, manipulating it, slowing it down, making it theirs. And it _is_ theirs, just for them.

For now, at least.

Almost before she realizes it, Frank has her pressed up against the wall. She gasps at the feeling of the cold tile hitting her back, but relaxes quickly, as Frank descends to her neck, lips sucking and sampling the slippery skin there. She places a hand behind his neck and then runs it up, dragging it through his wet hair as she lolls her head to one side to allow his mouth total access. In response his hand reaches up, cupping her breast and thumbing the nipple, and that finally elicits a quiet mewl from her. It slips past her lips and rises up, the sound reverberating quietly off the tile walls, and it only drives him on.

In one swift motion, Frank grabs one of her legs and holds it up at his hip, leaving her wide open for him, so that he could enter her at any second. She sucks in a sharp breath when he does, lust surging through her, cunt throbbing and clenching and so ready to take him that it kills her to still be empty. He’s hard; she can feel his cock bobbing heavily between his legs, brushing her thigh, but for some unknown reason, when by now any sane man would’ve done something, he’s holding back, unmoving.

“Frank…” she pants, squeezing her eyes shut. “Frank, please-”

Doubt, of all things, floods his eyes.

“You sure?”

She can see his eyes are searching hers for something deeper, trying to gaze past what she’s showing him, as if trying to make sure she really wants this; that this is actually _her_ talking and not just her libido. No doubt he’d seen how tired she was, half-hysterical when she’d shown up on his doorstep last night, and suddenly his hands are holding her like she’s as fragile as glass, his touch cautious. Under normal circumstances he’d make her beg, demand she tell him what she wants, and that she’s his, _I’m yours,_ _I’m yours_ … But all that wanton bravado is gone from him now, and he’s standing before her, honest and as uncertain as she’s ever seen.

“Yes,” she hisses, making a noise that bursts out of her mouth like a sob. “Yes – just… do it-”

“Hey.” His voice is firm. She opens her eyes, surprised, and he reaches up, cupping her cheek, voice deep enough to make a full-bodied shudder run through her. “You’re _sure_?”

He needs it, she realizes. Her consent. Explicit consent. The fact makes her heart twist with affection just as much as it makes blood rush to her clit – because he wants her, wants her to say _yes_ , and she knows if she told him to stop right now, without question, he would. He’d stop in a heartbeat, if she told him to.

She doesn’t want him to. Not at all.

“I’m sure,” Laurel breathes, looking him square in the eyes so he knows, beyond a shadow of doubt, that this is _her_ saying yes, choosing him, choosing _this_. She places a hand on his cheek, whimpering. “God, I need… I-”

Apparently, that’s all Frank needs to be sure, too.

Frank gets the message, and so he interrupts her – not with words, but by taking his cock in hand, positioning himself between her sopping folds, and gently, ever so gently, slipping inside. It’s not sudden, not rough, not like it usually is; he slides in so deliciously slowly that she can feel every rock-hard inch of him as he stretches her, right where he belongs. It’s only been two weeks since that night on the porch, and already she’s addicted to him, barely able to go half a day without another hit. She’s never felt that before, a veritable addiction, with any other guy. That _rush_ , flooding her veins when they touch. Electricity. No, not just electricity.

_Lightning._

She gets why people do drugs, now. Why they get hooked. He’s _her_ drug, she’s sure of it – always will be – and there’s no feeling in the world quite like shooting him into her veins.

Quickly, Frank draws her other leg up and urges her to wrap it around him. She complies, and as soon as he has her secured, Frank hoists her up, pressing her back against the wall harder. He’s never done this, fucked her against a wall, and it isn’t long before Laurel loses herself in a swarm of sensations: his cock buried inside her, deeper than she thinks he’s ever gone before; his powerful arms, holding her like she weighs nothing at all; his eyes, fixed on her, never leaving, not even for a second. That, somehow, is the hottest thing of all: him watching her face as he fucks her.

He’s never done this, fucked her against a wall before – but somehow, for some reason, Laurel doesn’t think she can call this _fucking_. Fucking is fast. Hard. Good, but… meaningless, ultimately – and this, now? With his eyes locked on hers as he thrusts away, and her hand on his cheek, steadying her gaze so that it never leaves his, somehow more intimate with him than she’s ever been before… This isn’t meaningless. It’s not _fucking_. Lovemaking, maybe.

Yeah. Lovemaking is a _much_ better word.

She can feel herself building, clenching, the familiar pressure swelling relentlessly between her legs. He has her at precisely the right angle to hit every single spot inside her, his cock brushing her clit every now and then, the engorged little nub screaming for more. So she squeezes her thighs together harder, clamping down, and the added friction and tightness of her cunt around him make them cry out together, as he inches toward that delicious edge and pulls her right along with him. Still, neither one of them look away, and Laurel watches him as he gets closer, analyzing every tiny detail as if seeing him like this for the first time: from the way the muscles in his jaw ripple when he clenches it, to the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he gulps, to the subtle sneer of his upper lip as he moans. He’s lost in the sensations. Lost in her body, lost in _her._

Laurel comes like that, immersed in the deep blues of his eyes, with his name on her lips.

“ _Frank_.”

She cries out, pleasure zinging through her, shooting out into every nerve ending and sparking, before finally migrating south and settling in her lower belly, where it smolders, turns to embers. She shuts her eyes, and a lightshow erupts behind her eyelids, mouth dropping open, body tensing. It isn’t long before Frank follows suit with one last, desperate thrust, before going still and burying his face into her throat with a choked groan.  

“ _Fuck_ , Laurel.”

She’s breathless, weak, her body limp; if it weren’t for Frank holding her up, she’s sure she would’ve fallen over a long time ago. For a moment they stay like that, him still inside her, holding her, keeping her pinned between his chest and the wall. Laurel glances up at him, and reaches out to brush a strand of wet hair out of his fact, smiling. Slowly, she becomes conscious of the fact that the shower is still on, spilling now-lukewarm water on Frank’s back, with tiny droplets pelting her legs. The heat of that, coupled with the heat of his body, makes her feel so safe that she’s pretty sure she could stay like this forever, and never once miss the outside world or any of the people in it. She wants to stay here, in this bubble of time they’ve stolen from themselves, this isolated world they’ve built. She wants it so much she could cry.

But she can’t. She has to go back; she knows that, and after last night, and everything that’s happened…

She deflates at the thought all of a sudden, just as Frank lets her down and moves back to look at her. That same softness still hasn’t left his eyes, and it mingles with concern when he notices her expression start to change from looking well-fucked to looking scared shitless.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, lowly, no doubt afraid he’s upset her more.

Laurel lets out a breath, trying to stop up her tears. “I-it’s not… It wasn’t _that_ – that was great, it’s just…”

“If… this is about Sasha-”

“It’s not.” Frank blinks, and she shakes her head. “I mean, yeah, it is. Part of it. But I…” Laurel drifts off, tears prickling the corners of her eyes. “I-I did something. Something bad. Not just stealing the trophy. Something worse.”

Frank frowns, but doesn’t press; he waits for her to speak, patient as ever.

“And I can’t tell you what,” Laurel continues, sniffling. “I just… Trust me, Frank, I can’t. It’s…”

Again, she trails off. This time, Frank speaks up, reaching out to place a hand on her cheek and tuck a piece of wet hair behind her ear.

“It don’t matter,” he undertones, emphatic.

Laurel swallows. “You say that now, but-”

“And I mean it.” He moves closer. She lowers her eyes, cheeks flushed, but he tilts her chin back up to get her to look at him. “Listen to me. You don’t wanna tell me what it is now? That’s fine. You tell me when you’re ready. But there’s nothing you could do that would change the way I feel about you.” Frank pauses, then adds, “Ever.”

She sniffs. “You sure?”

“Positive.” Frank tugs her close, pecking her on the forehead and taking a step toward the shower door. “Now c’mon. Let’s get you dried off and fed.”

He yanks open the door and starts to take a step out, but her voice sounds out to stop him.

“I, uh, don’t have a clean shirt to wear.”

Frank looks back at her, shrugging. “I got plenty of spares.”

The thought – of wearing his shirt, wrapping herself in his scent – makes Laurel blush.

“That works.”

Frank smirks, and holds out his hand for her to take. “You comin’ or not? We better not keep Bon waiting any longer.”

For a moment, inexplicably, Laurel pauses. She waits. Just looks at him, half-astounded.

Because last night, Laurel Castillo helped kill a man. Cut up and burned his body and put his severed limbs into trash bags. Last night she became a murderer; something she knows there’s no way to reverse, because this is the kind of blood on her hands that she can’t wash off. The kind that stains.

But this morning… This morning, Frank is looking at her in the light of the new day so tenderly it makes her melt, not like she’s a horrible person. This morning Frank is looking at her and telling her there is nothing she could ever do that would change the way he feels about her – and she’s never really believed that much in salvation, or redemption, and she knows in her heart that Frank is far from a good guy, but…

She feels like maybe he could be hers. Not now, not when this thing between them is still so new. But one day. So with that thought in mind she nods, and takes Frank’s hand, and lets him lead her.

“Yeah,” is all Laurel says, the tiniest of smiles on her lips. “Guess we better not.”


	7. Office sex, desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know how these keep getting so long. Whoops.
> 
> #18, desperation. Also office sex.

Frank has a lot of different versions of his ideal afternoon.

At home – or really, anywhere that isn’t the stuffy old office he lives out of sixty hours a week. Relaxing. Day-drinking, maybe; that’s always nice. A glass of scotch or cold beer in his hand. Taking a nap. He likes taking naps. Watching the game. Cooking a kickass Italian lunch. Or going on a walk in the park, if he’s particularly feeling that outdoorsy kind of shit.

But, if he’s being perfectly honest, fingering Laurel in the office bathroom beats out all those options by a long shot.

It’s a tiny, cramped little place, with ancient-looking red tile and a sink made of yellowed old porcelain – which Laurel is perched on rather precariously, panties shoved to the side to accommodate his hand and pants discarded on the ground next to him. Normally they both prefer it when she wears skirts that he can just hike up and be done with – what can he say? It makes for easier access – and it’s a slight inconvenience, but nothing a little improvisation can’t fix.

But skirt or not, she’s soaked, by now. Not just wet. Not just damp. _Soaked_ , so much so that her juices are smeared messily on the insides of her thighs, all over her smooth, soft mound and all over him. His two fingers are positively drenched with her slickness. When he adds a third, spreading her wider, she coats it in seconds, her cunt throbbing and downright ravenous for him. Laurel looks like a vision right then: flushed red all the way from her forehead down to her neck, mouth falling open, head lolling back against the mirror, hands grappling desperately behind her to hold onto the faucet and steady herself. Her legs are splayed open wide, displaying herself to him, one of them wrapped loosely around his waist. And she’s quivering, every inch of her. Her thighs trembling. Pussy clenching, as if trying to draw him in deeper.

She looks like a vision. Before he’d called her a MAP – _Mexican American Princess_ – but he knows better now. She’s not a princess.

She’s a queen. She’s a fucking _goddess_.

And there’s nothing on earth that beats spending an afternoon knuckles-deep inside a moaning, squirming, sopping wet Laurel.

“More,” she keens, a bit too loudly, before remembering that the only thing separating them from the others is an admittedly _very_ thin door. “God – _God_ -”

He smirks, kissing the plea as it leaves her mouth. “Hey, hush up. You want the others hearin’ how naughty you are?”

“Frank – just, I swear-”

He presses his fingers deeper, removing them briefly to swirl the wetness up around her clit and deliberately stealing the words right off her tongue. They dissolve into a throaty moan that Laurel doesn’t even remotely _try_ to hold back, so loud that he’s starting to wonder how the hell she ever got the nickname of _the quiet one_ in the first place – when really, with his hand between her legs, she’s anything but. This gets her off more than anything, he knows. The idea of someone catching them. _Seeing_ them, seeing her, all disheveled and flushed and immodest, and fuck, who is he trying to kid? Making sure everyone can hear how loud he can make her moan is his _thing_.

He half-wants a laugh. A pair of exhibitionists working in the same office is a veritable recipe for disaster. But this should be expected from them, really. It’s inevitable. Like science.

Biology, more like.

Clearly growing weary of being patient, Laurel’s back to writhing again, trying to squirm down onto his fingers and rocking her hips and trying to fuck herself harder on them, but she’s not having much success, and accomplishes nothing besides nearly tumbling off her perch on the sink. She’s given herself over to her instincts; he can see it. She’s a slave to them, eyes glazed over, body throbbing with one singular primal desire. His is, too; he’s so hard that he almost can’t remember what it feels like not to be, his cock aching, engorged and pounding and screaming at him to be released – but no. He’s a master of control. He can hold back. Laurel still doesn’t have much of a handle on that, on waiting. On _control_. She’s wild, untamed like a firecracker; a candle burning at both ends.

And she’s really damn fun to screw with, when she’s like this.

So he moves back, slides his fingers out. They come away so wet that her juices nearly drip down onto his slacks, and Laurel cries out in disappointment – not in a sexy, high-pitched way, but more like a low, guttural, _actual physical pain_ kind of way.

“What’d I say about bein’ quiet?” he purrs, his breath hot as steam in her ear. He glances down briefly, tugging on her panties for emphasis. “Don’t make me stuff these in your mouth.”

Laurel just glowers. “You’re such a fucking… _asshole_ , I-”

In one swift movement, he shuts her up. He moves his soaked fingers up to her lips and probes between them, pressing inside, leaving her no choice but to take the digits in and taste herself all over him – and she does. He can feel it when she does, in the fresh rush of wetness on his other hand, which he has placed between her legs, cupping her mound, letting her rock her hips and try to grind her clit on it, but to no avail. It’s torture, what he’s doing. Probably borderline cruel, but he has a goddamn PhD in teasing, even if he never got a degree in anything else, and he fully intends to use it.

For a moment, Laurel doesn’t move, aside from the instinctive rocking of her hips and the way he can feel her tongue swirling around his fingers, tasting them, tasting _herself_. Then, her eyes harden, the gears behind them turning – and she does something he isn’t expecting.

She bites him.

It’s not a hard bite – not hard enough to make him bleed, but it’s enough to hurt, and make him grunt in surprise and draw his fingers back, staring at her in shock, brow furrowed. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Laurel look so simultaneously turned-on and indignant, clenching her jaw so hard he can see the muscles there rippling, lips pursed tight, eyes set with determination and cold as ice. It takes him a moment to recover from that; he’s caught between being really fucking aroused and trying to pretend to be pissed, but eventually he just breaks into another smirk he knows will infuriate the hell out of her, and moves in again, thrusting three fingers into her relentlessly and groping for that spot a few inches inside that he knows will send her spiraling out of orbit.

“Uh uh uh,” he mock-chides, eyes dancing with mischief as Laurel goes almost boneless with want at the sudden assault, slumping back against the mirror so hard that it clatters. “What’s that saying again? ‘Don’t bite the hand that fucks you?’”

Laurel is panting half-hysterically now, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and glistening underneath the dim lightbulb in the lamp above them as he fucks her with his fingers. He knows how sensitive she is, right now. Normally he wouldn’t be so rough, so steady and merciless; he would play her body, pressing each key and forming each chord in exactly the right way to bring her crescendoing towards climax – but he uses none of that finesse here. He just fucks her, well and truly _fucks_ her, so hard that all he can hear is the wet squelching of her cunt around his fingers, punctuated now and then by her whines and moans, as she arches back and hits the mirror again, hard, hard enough that he almost thinks she’s about to shatter it in the throes of her ecstasy.

Admittedly, that’d be pretty hot: him getting her hot and bothered to the point of being downright destructive. But he also doesn’t know how he would explain that one to Annalise, so. It’s probably better it stays in one piece.

“I’m gon – I, _ah_ -” she sputters, the words escaping her in a burst. He can tell she’s trying not to sound like a blubbering mess, but isn’t having much luck. “F-fuck, I’m, ohGod – I-”

She doesn’t have to tell him; he knows how close she is, how rapidly her orgasm is careening towards her like a freight train on the tracks, not coaxing her towards the edge but _shoving_ her there almost brutally. He’s plunging his thick fingers in and out so fast that he thinks he may even be hurting her – but there’s no flash of pain in Laurel’s eyes, and she doesn’t look, even for a second, like she wants him to ease up. She’s close, growing closer by the second, her walls clenching and contracting around his fingers, hot as fire and soft as silk. Her muscles are tensing, the pressure pent-up, and huge and almost terrifying. He can feel a full-bodied shudder run through her, and she’s mewling his name now, voice reedy and broken, swearing like a sailor in between cries, and-

All at once, in the midst of one of those cries, he stops.

But Frank doesn’t just stop to tease her, prolong this. It takes every scrap of his willpower to do it, but he _stops_. He pulls his fingers out and takes a step back, sucking on them greedily to clean them before letting his hand fall back down to his side as he catches his breath, taking in the sight of her. He stops, and leaves Laurel right where she is: perched on the sink with no pants on, the crotch of her panties shoved to one side to expose her swollen clit and engorged folds, and she’s so wet he swears he can see her dripping, even from a distance. It seems to take Laurel a moment to register that he’s stopped, and when she does, and takes one long, hard look at him, and realizes what he’s doing, she pales, her mouth trying to form words but failing every time.

“Well,” Frank says, nonchalant as ever, though it’s feigned nonchalance and he knows it; he’s so close to coming in his pants that every inch of his skin is prickling, burning, his cock leaking. “We better get back to work.”

He’s never seen Laurel look so furious before in her life.

She’s always been dangerous, deep down. He knows this. They _both_ know this; the quiet one, the most dangerous, but he’s never seen her look as dangerous as she does right now, as _deadly_ , like she’s all of 0.3 seconds away from throttling him – or bludgeoning him with whatever heavy object she can get her hands on. Every inch of her seems to pulse red with rage, anger seeping out of her cracks. She simmers. _Seethes_. Frank swears he can almost see steam coming out of her ears, with twin spots of color rising to her cheeks.

“W-what’re you-” Her voice breaks off into a half-growl, half-moan. “Frank, what the _hell_?”

He feigns confusion, and glances down at his watch. “What? We’re on the clock.”

Again, Laurel just gapes at him. He almost expects her to scream at him, or slap him – but Laurel does neither of those things. Instead, from where she’s seated on the sink, she reaches one of her legs out and tries to kick him, but misses, badly, and ends up just awkwardly waggling her foot in the air for a moment, before letting it fall back down and hissing again.

“Don’t. You. _Dare_.”

Laurel isn’t yelling, but the quiet fury in her voice is just as terrifying – and he _would_ be terrified, if he wasn’t such an asshole, and wasn’t enjoying this so much.

So he just grins, again, and pretends to go for the door, glancing back over his shoulder long enough to say, “Tick tock. Time’s a wasting, babe.”’

“I-” She cuts herself off, breathing heavily and finally closing her legs. “I-I don’t _need_ you. I can take care of myself. Right here. Better… better than you can.”

She’s trying to challenge him, prod at his ego, poke the beast, but she doesn’t sound the least bit convincing, and he can tell that Laurel doesn’t really believe what she’s saying, either. With that in mind, he turns back to her and strides over – and instinctively, she spreads her legs, as if inviting him between them once more, but he doesn’t reach down to touch her. His cock is throbbing, bulging out and painfully obvious; he has no intentions of actually going out there like _this,_ with the stiffy of the century in his slacks, but he’s not about to let Laurel know that, and so he leans in, nipping lightly at one of her ears.

“Nah. You won’t,” he undertones, voice deep. “’Course, you can try. Touch yourself. Stroke that pretty little clit, over and over. Frantic. You’ll be desperate. And you’ll get close, maybe.”

Gently, he reaches out, grabbing her hand and guiding it down between her legs and pressing it against her folds, which he can feel radiating heat even though he’s not directly touching them. Her breath hitches in her throat, eyes fluttering shut, as he guides the heel of her hand against her clit, grinding against it lightly, enough to make her hiss from the maddeningly indirect contact.

“But see, you won’t be able to come. Because you’ll be thinking of me the whole time. You’ll be so mad… so _frustrated_ , ‘cause you know there’s no one but me who can get you off like you like it. Not even you.”

When he pulls back, again, Laurel glares. Just glares, for a moment. If looks could kill, he’d be a goner in seconds – but luckily looks _can’t_ kill, and instead of actually trying to kill him herself, Laurel just huffs, shoves him aside none too gently, hops down off the sink, and grabs her discarded pants, wiggling her way back into them with a scowl, cheeks still flushed and hair mussed, so aroused that she squirms every time her thighs touch. Pragmatic as ever, she pauses a moment at the mirror, fixing her hair and blouse and very obviously putting a lot of effort into not making eye contact with him – and he’s just about to make some snide remark when Laurel rounds on him suddenly, managing, somehow, to refrain from slapping him, though he can’t say he’d blame her.

But her eyes are dark, foreboding, a hurricane raging behind them; the oncoming storm. He’s not getting away from this scot-free – no sir, he knows she’ll think up some kind of revenge, and soon. She always does. He won’t expect it.

He never does. That’s what he loves about her.

“Y’know, FYI, this blue balls thing,” she spits, before pushing past him and going for the door, “is getting really _fucking_ old, Frank.”

Personally, he disagrees. But for once Frank just bites his tongue, and watches her stalk out the door with a satisfied smirk playing at his lips.

 

\--

 

Unsurprisingly, it turns out that Laurel _really_ does not appreciate being left high and not-so-dry.

He takes care of himself in the bathroom, and when he steps out he finds Laurel seated at one end of the couch, cheeks flushed deep red, trying to pay attention to a case file but squirming in her seat every few minutes. No doubt she’s just as wet as she was before, cruelly unsatisfied, and for a moment or so, Frank actually feels pretty guilty for teasing her; he’s well aware he has it easy compared to her in the orgasm department. He can just beat off and achieve relatively the same end goal. Laurel has it harder; she comes easier than most, sure, but she needs someone to play her body, know every single spot and chart each one like a cartographer. She needs time. A bit of patience. He’d given her neither. He’d been a total dick, by not giving her just that: his dick.

And it’d been fun for him, sure, but now he knows he needs to make it up to her. Big time.

An hour passes, and he spectates from the armchair near Bonnie’s desk the whole time, cool and composed as ever. Laurel is more on edge than he thinks he’s ever seen her: jumping whenever one of the others breaks the silence to make some observation about the case, and snapping at Connor when he asks if she’s okay, because “I’m fine! Would you just… mind your own damn business for _once_?” Asher bumps into her while she’s carrying a stack of files, causing her to drop them all over the floor, and she gives him such a death glare that the kid almost seems to wither and shrink three inches beneath it.

Eventually, the others seem to realize that it’s prudent to leave her alone, lest they end up like one of the dead bodies in their endless stack of autopsy photos, and head off to lunch. Wes asks her, quite timidly, if she wants to come, but she waves him away wordlessly, cheeks still flushed. Frank, for his part, doesn’t approach her, not at first, even though they’re alone. Instead, he just picks up his files and brings them over to Bonnie’s desk, taking a seat and leaning back in the chair to read them.

He likes to sit at Bonnie’s desk, sometimes. He still doesn’t have one, even after almost a decade of working at this damn place, and by now he’s pretty sure it’s Annalise trying to send him some kind of message that no law degree equals no desk. Which sucks. A lot. And occasionally pisses him off – but using Bonnie’s is good enough most of the time, and it makes him feel important, even though she gets on him about it sometimes.

So he takes a seat, reading for a while. Laurel lurks in the background at first, walking around and looking through the seemingly endless boxes of files. He can’t tell if she’s pretending to work or not, but he’s pretty sure it’s the latter, especially considering that she looks just as flustered as she did after leaving the bathroom. His eyes flick up to look at her, occasionally. Giving her feigned cursory glances, like he hardly notices her presence – when really his eyes are following her like heat-seeking missiles, and he’s barely comprehending half the words on the page in front of him.

But she’s giving him the cold shoulder. She looks almost like she’s waiting for something, the right opportunity to pounce, creeping around, footfalls soft as a ghost, never speaking a word. He’s fairly certain this is part of whatever plan she’s devised to get back at him.

And holy shit, he’s in. He is _all_ in, whatever it is she has in store for him, however devious and nefarious it is. 

Half an hour into being alone with Laurel, his phone rings.

It stirs him from his reverie, and he reaches for it immediately, only to find himself met with Annalise’s name on his screen. Although he’s having a pretty enjoyable time doing nothing for once, he brings it up to his ear nonetheless and sits up. Across the room, he can see Laurel eyeing him. Something shifts in her demeanor; she looks suddenly focused, zeroed in, like this is what she’s been waiting for, but he makes himself turn his attention to his phone, trying to ignore her, even when she turns and saunters over to stand in front of the desk.

“Hey,” he greets, eyes on Laurel, before he manages to snap out of it and ask, “Any luck tracking down our witness?”

“ _No_ ,” Annalise replies, sounding more than slightly pissed. “ _But I need your help. I need you to get me a meeting with someone_.”

Laurel is taking a step towards him, now. Laurel looks oddly determined. And before he can really comprehend what she’s doing, Laurel is circling around the desk, stopping in front of him, and sinking down onto her knees, her hands going for his belt quickly, with sharp, precise motions. She has it undone in a matter of seconds, and scoots closer, lowering her face closer to his groin and yanking down his zipper and – shit.

This is really not a good time. But he’s starting to think that may be the point.

‘What the hell?’ Frank mouths, and Laurel just looks at him, thoroughly unfazed, before giving his pants a firm tug down and making similarly short work of his boxer-briefs. She has his cock freed in what must be record time, like she’s starving and he’s a meal she’s about to gobble up, and she licks her lips, reaching out to stroke him.

He tries to stop himself from getting hard, at first. Doesn’t know _how_ , exactly, he plans on stopping himself. Just knows that he’s gotta try, and so he does, but the feeling of Laurel’s lithe little hands on him, and the dampness of her lips, and the thought of what those pink, perfect lips would feel like wrapped around him… He’s lost in seconds, and the only thing that brings him back to earth is Annalise’s voice in his ear, low and insistent.

“ _Frank_?”

“Yeah, uh,” he swallows, hard, caught between pulling away from Laurel and hanging up the phone. After deciding that the latter would really not go over well, he tries to move back, but Laurel is faster and pounces like a feline, and starts to bow her head, placing a tender kiss on the head of his cock and deliberately making a soft little whimper when she does, which drives him out of his damn _mind_. He’s fully erect now; there’s no escaping it, or _her_. “H-hold on a sec.”

Stifling a moan, he moves the phone away, covers the microphone as best he can, and glares down at Laurel.

“Hey,” he says, trying his best to be firm, when really the only thing _firm_ about him is his cock, and his brains are turning to mush. “Jesus, Laurel, cut it out-”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she murmurs around a mouthful of him, then pulls back. There’s no teasing look in her eye; no mischief like there normally is when she goes down on him. She still just looks flat-out pissed, and apparently this is how she’s chosen to make him pay. “Am I interrupting something?”

For a second, Frank just blinks.

He’d never thought revenge could come in the form of blowjobs. This seems counterintuitive.

“ _Ah_ ,” he groans, when Laurel moves in for the kill unexpectedly, parting her lips and taking more of him into her mouth, swirling her tongue in divine curly-cues and patterns on his hardened flesh that make his toes curl. He’s just as confused as he is aroused, and he has no fucking clue _what_ to do. “Shit, there’s no way- I’m hanging up-”

She pulls back at once, eyes burning. “Uh uh. You _stay_ on that phone.”

It’s an order, plain and simple. He’s caught between his two bosses – and right then, with his cock in hand, Laurel has a _hell_ of a lot more authority over him than anyone else. Even Annalise. Also, he figures he owes her this. He’d screwed her over, and he’d made a promise to himself to make it up to her, even though he definitely hadn’t been expecting _this_.

So, with that in mind, he gulps, and raises the phone to his ear once more.

“Sorry,” he manages to steady his voice long enough to say, as Laurel goes back to work, easing more and more of him into her mouth, until he’s almost bobbing in her throat, back so far that he has no damn clue how she does it. “There, uh, was… somebody at the door.”

He can almost hear Annalise’s frown over the phone. “ _Who_?”

“Some guy. Had the wrong address,” is all he says, and he’s pretty proud of his ability to think on his feet right now, when really he’s totally awash in sensation: Laurel’s mouth, hot and closing around him so immaculately, the most perfect thing in the world; the vibrations of the soft noises and moans she makes, not loud enough for Annalise to hear but sure as hell loud enough for _him_ to hear.

He’s not going to last long. Not with Laurel on her knees, blue eyes wide, doing everything in her power to get him off ASAP. He’s got to wrap this up, and fast.

Frank coughs to cover up a moan, then asks, “What did you need?”

“ _A meeting_ ,” Annalise repeats. “ _Write this down. I need to meet with Mrs. Ivanna Edmondson-Bishop, at her office on 48 th street, next Friday at 1:30pm. I also need to meet with her husband, Timothy Bishop – the first, he insists on being called, that ass of a man. Their number is_-”

“Hey, hold… hold on a sec, I need to find-”

Frank is trying to do a lot of things at once, and this is not good, because he’s a notoriously shitty multitasker. He’s trying to listen, like a good employee. He’s trying to find a pad of paper and a pen with one hand, feeling around Bonnie’s desk half-blindly. He’s trying not to look at Laurel, and ignore the feeling of her sucking him off with so much vigor– which is, as far as he’s concerned, pretty much as impossible as breathing on the moon. He’s trying _really_ damn hard not to come. So far, on that front, he’s doing okay.

But he’s sweating. His thighs are splayed open, and Laurel is settled between them, and he’s powerless to fend her off, powerless to do anything but sit back and let her have her wicked way with him, because this is what he turns into the second she has him by the dick: a helpless, moaning mess. That oh-so-familiar pressure is building in his cock; he can feeling himself swelling, aching, as she blows him with as much determination as he’s ever seen, like she’s trying to win some kind of race – and she is.

Yeah. Fuck, she’s winning. She’s about to cross the damn finish line and he’s five miles back, lying face down on the race track, wheezing and unable to get up.

“ _For Christ’s sake, Frank, how hard is it to write a few words down_?”

Annalise is yelling, now. That makes him feel a bit conflicted, like the part of his brain controlled by Annalise is battling the one controlled by Laurel, overwhelmed with bliss. It should be a buzzkill, getting yelled at by Annalise. Admittedly, it kind of is, and that’s probably good. Means he can hold back. Last, for another minute or so.

Finally, by some miracle, he locates a pen and a pad of paper. “Okay. I – _God_ – I’m good, now.”

Frank curses himself for the slip, grinding his teeth. Of course, Annalise notices.

“ _The hell’s the matter with you_?”

“Nothing,” he says, a bit too quickly, voice strained as Laurel picks up the pace, bobbing her head up and down, and all he can think about is how fucking _bad_ he wants to grab at her hair and hold it in his fist as he sucks him. “I’m ready. You can, uh, go ahead.”

Annalise speaks slower this time, like she’s talking to a kindergartener. He wants – well, _needs_ – her to hurry the hell up, but all he does is wait while she repeats herself, and scrawls down what she’s saying even as his world starts to spin, and every inch of him tingles with his impending orgasm.

“ _I need a meeting with Mrs. Ivanna Edmondson-Bishop, at her office on 48th street, next Friday at 1:30pm. I need to meet with her husband too: Timothy Bishop – the first. Got that? Their number is 553-893-0039. Their office is on the corner of 48 th and Vine_.”

Frank scrawls something down. He’s not even sure it’s real English words, and it’s most definitely not what she’d just said, but it suffices. To be honest, he doesn’t really give a fuck, because Laurel has taken him into her throat again, coating every single inch of him in her saliva, her lips parted and jaw dropped wide to take him in, so eagerly, so willingly, and like such a fucking _pro_. He catches a glimpse of her, before he can help himself, and it almost does him in, because the sight of Laurel on her knees is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, as far as he’s concerned.

Well, actually – Laurel is every Wonder of the World, to him. But that doesn’t matter, because he’s dangling by a thread, now.

“Okay,” Frank grinds out, clenching his jaw. “Got it.”

“ _Repeat it back to me. I need to know you have this_.”

Fuck. Fucking fuck. He can’t do that. He can barely form words, at this point; he sure as hell can’t remember what she’d said, and the scribbles on the paper in front of him aren’t going to do him any good.

Still, he’s got to try.

“You, uh-” he cuts himself off, when he feels the light scrapes of Laurel’s teeth on him.

_Shit._ That’s a trick in her book she doesn’t use often, but when she does… Normally, as a guy, Frank doesn’t appreciate anything to do with teeth on that particular body part at all, but Laurel has such a finesse, using just the right amount; light scrapes, never actual bites, to make his nerves tingle, make him twitch. She knows exactly how to touch him. How to get him. He hasn’t come yet and she sees that as a challenge, because normally when she gives him head he’s putty in her hands, and he’s resisting, and she needs to see him crumble. He can tell, by the look on her face.

_But no. Focus. Focus, Frank, focus._

“You need a meeting. With… Ivanna Edmond-B… B…”

_Fuck._ What was that lady’s second last name? Why do people need two last names anyway?

“ _Bishop_!” Annalise bites out, her temper flaring. “ _Frank, all I ask you of you is that you do your damn job, why is writing down two sentences so hard for you? Do we need to send you back to grade school to learn to_ read _again_?”

He’s being yelled at. Simultaneously, he’s getting a blowjob. That’s really not a great combination; in fact, it’s pretty fucking confusing, but all he knows is that he’s close, dangerously close. And he knows he only has one option, at this point. And that option is to-

“Gotta go,” he blurts out, biting back another groan. “I – call you back-”

“ _Frank? Frank, don’t you dare hang up! When I get back to the office I_ -”

He ends the call before he can listen to another word, all but throwing the phone on the desk. Finally, he lets his head lean back against the chair, and places a hand on Laurel’s head, allowing a moan to flow freely from his throat. Every inch of him is jelly, limbs loose and shaky, head swimming. His blood is boiling. All he can hear is his own heartbeat, thudding like his heart is about to beat out of his chest, and the quiet slurping noises Laurel is making to drive him on, every bit as relentless as he’d been with her.

And when she stops, pulling away, letting him slide out of her throat, sitting up, and wiping her mouth off on the back of her hand, he can’t honestly say he hadn’t been expecting that.

But just because he hadn’t expected it doesn’t make it hurt any less, and he groans like he’s just been stabbed, the rush of cold air on his cock where her warm mouth had been sheer agony.

“ _Fuck_.” His voice is almost a whine. “Laurel, don’t…”

Breathing heavily, Laurel stands before him for a moment, before doing something _else_ he isn’t expecting: yanking off her pants, clambering her way onto his lap, and straddling his legs. The chair is short, so she has to stand with her legs on either side of him, hovering over him, but that doesn’t stop her. Her pupils blown up enormous and black with want, she takes hold of his cock firmly and guides it against her folds, which are no less wet than they were when he’d left her. Frank growls at the feeling, the sound deep and feral, as she teases the both of them, bringing him higher and rubbing his leaking tip against her clit.

“I’ll just do this,” she pants in his ear, not drawing back to meet his eyes, as she continues guiding him against her. Her knees shake, threatening to collapse. “M… make myself come like this. I can, I – ah, _oh_ … That’s it…”

His hands go for her hips, trying to guide her down on him, but Laurel resists. She just keeps going, using his cock like a toy, and he’s so close to being inside her that it aches, fucking drives him half-mad. He aches all over. Every inch of him is awake, alive, burning with fire. He can’t last much longer. However close he had been before, he’s ten times closer now, so much so that he hadn’t known it was possible to be so close and _not_ come. One wrong move, one wrong thought, hell, one more _word_ from Laurel, and he’ll come in her fist, weak and shuddering and gasping.

Maybe that’s what she wants. Probably it is.

“Please…” He’s not above begging, not like this. He’d beg to be inside her, plead, supplicate, get on his knees, _anything_ , and no one’s ever had this much power over him before, not even any other woman, and that scares the living crap out of him. “Please, let me – Laurel, please-”

“You wanna fuck me?” she drawls, pulling back to meet his eyes, a lazy grin pulling at her saliva-dampened lips. Her hair is wild, eyes wild, voice hitching as she uses him, nearing her own peak. “ _Earn it_.”

Frank doesn’t need to be told twice.

He doesn’t know how he manages to move, really, but in seconds he has pushed her up and off of him, so that she stumbles back onto Bonnie’s desk. It all happens in flashes, after that. He’s a beast, not in control of his own actions. He has one thought in his head, and one only: earn it. Earn _her._

He shoves the stacks of papers and files off the desk like a madman, until he has a spot cleared for Laurel. When he does, he’s upon her in seconds: lying her down, ripping off her panties to bare her cunt to him fully, grabbing her leg, placing it over his shoulder to allow him a better angle, and entering her in one sudden, brutal, merciless thrust, as deep as he can go, practically bottoming out inside her. And he comes, in seconds. Comes with a roar, not caring how he sounds, exploding hot inside her; comes until he can’t come anymore, until his vision whites out, harder than he ever has before in his life. He’s vaguely aware of Laurel crying out with him, reaching down and stroking her clit, but he can’t be sure. His mind is hazy, cloudy, like he’s coming off of some kind of drug, like he’d blacked out and is only now regaining consciousness.

Finally, when his vision clears, he blinks a few times, and looks down at Laurel. He’d been too caught up in himself to even notice if she’d come – but judging by the happy, sleepy look on her face, and the way she idly fingers her clit with one hand, humming contently, he knows she’d done just fine.

The room is a disaster around them, like a tornado had run through it. Papers are strewn about, pens and folders littering the floor, along with whatever little decorative paperweights Bonnie had placed on her desk. It’s not the first time their fucking at the office has created such a mess, and before Frank can help it he chuckles, pulling out and struggling to catch his breath.

“Holy shit,” he pants, looking around, stunned, like up until now he’d been in some kind of trance. “Fuck, what happened? Did… did we do this?”

Beneath him, Laurel laughs. Not a giggle, or a chuckle; a full-chested laugh, the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

He shakes his head. He’s numb, but in a good way. He feels fucking perfect, as a matter of fact. Never felt better in his life. He always feels that way, whenever he’s with Laurel; fucking perfect, like a bit of her perfection has rubbed off onto him, somehow. There’s no better feeling in the world.

A voice, out of nowhere, echoing down the hallway, pops that happy little bubble in seconds.

“Hey, Frank, I need you to – oh _God_.”

Bonnie.

Bonnie, of all people, walks in, then promptly stops in her tracks and shields her eyes. Frank swears under his breath, and yanks up his pants and boxers immediately, while Laurel shrieks and scampers over to find hers. He fumbles with his belt, fingers clumsy, and does his best to shield Laurel behind him, as she shimmies her way back into her own pants.

“Shit,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair and trying not to look like a guy who was, quite literally, just caught with his pants around his ankles. “I, hey, Bon – didn’t think you were getting’ back til one-”

Bonnie makes a sound of disgust. “Ugh, are you guys _kidding_ me? This is the second time this _week_!”

“Woah, hey. The second?” he shoots back. “What was the fi-”

“Monday,” Laurel whispers behind him, horrified, and he freezes at once.

Shit. So they have fucked on Bonnie’s desk twice this week. This may actually be becoming a habit.

“Look, I… we just-”

She holds up her hands. “No – _no_! Please, for the love of God, Frank, do not explain.”

For a moment Frank just stands there, sheepish, flushed from head to toe, not knowing what to say. Then, finally, he clears his throat and lowers his eyes.

“It, um… won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“ _Our_ word,” Laurel chimes in, stepping out from behind him, having dressed herself again. “We promise. So… so sorry, Bonnie. If there’s anything we can-”

Bonnie just rolls her eyes, and starts to take a step into the next room. “You know, this happens again, and I’m signing up two up for Sex Addicts Anonymous. _Or_ having you remanded to an asylum for sexual deviants.”

Frank relaxes, releasing a breath as she starts to walk away – only to have her turn seconds later, as something occurs to her.

“And yes, by the way, there is something you two can do for me. Clean up all those papers and organize them again like they were. And…” She drifts off, her lip curling up in revulsion. “Wipe that thing off with disinfectant. _Twice_.”

With that, Bonnie turns and stalks out of the room, vanishing into the kitchen. The second she’s gone, Laurel turns to him and bursts out laughing again, and he follows in short order. They dissolve into a fit of laughter together, leaning into each other’s arms, before finally quieting down and sharing a brief, tender kiss.

“Oh my God,” Laurel chortles, after pulling back. “We are _so_ going to get fired one day.”

“We? After that phone call blowjob fiasco, Annalise is definitely gonna have my head.”

“Mmm,” she hums, reaching up to run a hand through his slick hair. “I hope not. I like your head. It’s very handsome.”

“Yeah?” He smirks. “You like my head or you like _getting_ head?”

“Both.”

“Yeah, well, that was a crazy specific plan for revenge. What would you’ve done if nobody called me, huh?”

She smiles devilishly. “Oh, I had a plan B.”

“Which was?”

“Blow you under the desk with everyone else around,” she says, as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary at all. Laurel does a giddy, graceful sort of dance away from him before he can come up with a response to that, picking up a can of disinfectant wipes that’d been resting on a table nearby, removing one, then holding the rest out to him and grinning from ear to ear.

“Now c’mon. Better get to work.”


	8. Needy, clingy sex, reunion sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN UPDATE??? I know!! I'm the worst and got distracted by other things but here we go again! I'm desperate for a Flaurel reunion in canon and had to write something, and after seeing the prompt "needy, clingy sex" I knew I had to do it (or... _they_ had to do it). Also because if they're knocking up my girl Laurel this better fuckin be how it goes down.
> 
> Also Frank has a beard in this because… reasons.

He talks to her for hours. About everything. Once the stop in his throat is released all he can seem to _do_ is talk.

And finally, finally, after he’s finished and gone silent – after he’s used up all this breath, explained everything to her: Mahoney and Bonnie’s dad and Lila and Sam and all of it, talked her damn ear off, talked until he has no more words to give her – Laurel sighs, and rises up from the shitty motel bed, grabbing her purse with sudden determination and going for the door.

“Come on,” she tells him, eyelids drooping with exhaustion and eyes hazy, like she’s on the brink of drifting off while standing and God, _God_ , even like this she looks so beautiful he has to blink a few times, pinch himself to make sure he isn’t dreaming. “Get your stuff.”

He furrows his brow but stands. “Where’re we goin’?”

“A real hotel,” is all she says. “Because this place is disgusting, and I’m not getting bedbugs from sleeping on that mattress.”

He smirks, and stands, and follows her, can’t do anything other than obey her. After so long, after making himself sick with missing her so many nights he can’t even count them, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to let her out of his sight again. He shoves his clothing into his suitcase, not taking much time and not particularly caring if he leaves anything behind; it’s all replaceable, all meaningless. And Laurel is not.

Laurel is _here_ , and she’s waiting for him.

So he goes, letting her lead him out the door and down to her car. They drive in silence, without a word; they’ve put everything out the table tonight and there’s simply nothing left, not a single word in the English language he can come up with to give her now. He’s given her all his words. All his everything. And he’s exhausted by it all but violently awake in her presence, like all these months he’s been living in some half-alive, dormant state and she’s shocked him back to life. Given him purpose again. He’d forgotten what it feels like, being with her. Even just to be in her presence, not touching her, and now he remembers all over again; it feels like drowning but the sweetest kind of drowning, the sweetest sort of ache. His sweet, sweet doom.

She pulls off the highway half an hour later, finds them a decent chain hotel, hands over her father’s credit card with a smile, and helps him lug his bags up to the room. They could’ve driven back to the city and maybe she should’ve but somehow, in this hotel off some nondescript exit on some nondescript little road everything feels like another world, another universe where nothing in Philly exists and it’s only him and her, insulated in this bubble of time and space. Just the two of them, as simple as it’d been before. It’s a spacious room, with a king-sized bed that looks clean enough to most definitely _not_ be hosting a colony of bedbugs, and a pullout couch he assumes he’ll be taking for the night. And he’s fine with that; he really is. He’d lay like a dog at her feet if she wanted him to.

He takes a seat on the bed, and Laurel mutters something about going to take a shower, disappearing into the bathroom and reemerging half an hour later wrapped in a plush white towel that stops midway up her thighs. It’s the most of her skin he’s seen in so long that he can’t help but stare, at all the smooth, soft, unsullied flesh he remembers so well. Her hair is damp, all wild and uncombed, dripping down her shoulders and back in zig-zagging rivulets, all lit from behind by the light in the bathroom. Making her shimmer. She doesn’t even have to try to be beautiful, try even a little and somehow she is anyway, all the time, every second. Somehow she defies all logic and reason, every law of the universe. She’s defied everything and _everyone_ , over and over, to be here with him now.

He realizes he’s staring the same instant she does and Laurel raises her eyebrows, amused but not shying away.

“You have a shirt I can sleep in?” she asks, clutching the towel at her front.

And he stares for a moment longer but snaps out of it quickly, going for his suitcase and liberating one of his loose flannels; black and red crisscrossing on the fabric, one he’s pretty sure she’s worn before. She used to sleep in them, all the time. Probably still has a few stashed somewhere in her apartment.

He likes to think she does, at least.

“Yeah, knock yourself out.”

She takes it and turns away, letting the towel slip off of her shoulders, leaving her backside bare to him. And he tries not to look, tries to tear his eyes from her, stop staring like some fucking _creep_ but he can’t – because she’s all flawless, enticing curves, from the rounding of her ass to the sinuous line of her spine running up her back to her sharp shoulder blades, jutting out beneath her skin. He doesn’t think she does it on purpose, to drive him on; she changes in front of him because she feels comfortable enough to do it. Comfortable enough with _him_.

Everything is different now, between them. Yet somehow it’s fundamentally the same. It’s like it always has been.

She slips on the shirt and buttons it down the middle, and only then does she turn to look at him again as if she’d been able to feel his eyes on her from behind. Laurel folds her arms and gives a sigh, so deep that she looks like she deflates, releases all the air out of her lungs and sags underneath the weight of her exhaustion, positively swallowed up by the huge baggy shirt. She looks like she’s been sleeping just about as well as he has – which is to say not at all. Not even a little.

“We coulda gone back,” he says, blurting the words out because he’s always been shit at making conversation, and doesn’t know what else to say. “City’s – what? Half an hour from here?”

“I couldn’t. Tonight, I just…” She sighs and crosses the room, bending down to pull open the mini fridge and rummaging around until she pulls out several little bottles of assorted liquor. She doesn’t bother to find a glass; she just screws off the cap of what he thinks looks like scotch and tips it back, making her way over to him and holding out another bottle to him, which he takes with disinterest. Laurel sinks down onto the bed next to him, shaking her head, taking a swig. “I need to… not be there, tonight.”

She doesn’t have to say it for him to understand what she means. Philly is reality. Philly is where their lives are and everyone in them; Annalise and Bonnie and all the rest, but here it’s like none of that exists, like there’s nothing outside these four walls. It’s a sort of fool’s paradise and they both know they can’t stay sheltered here forever, but tonight…

Frank figures they’ve got tonight, at least.

“You, uh… you changed your hair,” he says, a bit dumbly, again not knowing what else to say.

Amusement flickers in her eyes. “Mmm. So I’m not the only observant one around here after all.”

He smirks, cocking his head to one side, watching the new copper tones in her damp hair catch the light and shine. Falling in love with each one, each new variation in color, every new part of her that’s changed during their months apart. “I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pauses, then admits softly, “I’m glad you’re here, y’know.”

She smiles back; a tiny thing, barely-there but creeping up to her eyes until it takes root and blossoms in them, too. Laurel shifts, angling herself towards him and tucking one of her legs up underneath her. The air between them is alive again, jumping with static electricity, thrumming. Electric, like it’s always been – like they always were together, and maybe it’s been months, months apart, but it’s still there. That jolt. That spark. It’s not easily lost and Frank knows it. He doesn’t think it’ll _ever_ be lost.

“Yeah. Me too.” She pauses, rubbing her lips together in contemplation. “Miss me?”

“That even a question?”

She shakes her head, lowering her eyes and chuckling. “No. Not really.”

Laurel knows, he can tell. She knows he’d missed her – how the hell could he not? He’d missed her so much it’d killed him, replayed her voicemails over and over at night with his phone clutched to his ear, pining like a lovesick teenage fool. Loving her. Sick with loving her. He’d never stopped. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that – and he’d thought that was bullshit before but it must be sort of true because right here right now he feels full to bursting with affection, desire to reach out and touch her, and he _wants_ to. He doesn’t think she’d stop him, knows she wants it too; he can see it in the dilation of her pupils, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips subconsciously, as if wanting _him_ to be the one to wet them instead.

But there’s distance between them now that he can’t ignore, try as he might; distance there didn’t used to be. He won’t make the first move, cross that line, not if she doesn’t want it. He won’t.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to. Laurel takes the initiative, eager as ever.

It’s a slow progression, her movement toward him; slow and somehow also not slow at all. She inches closer, bit by bit, a little heat-seeking missile seeking him. She scoots nearer and nearer, and he doesn’t move away, drawn to her and leaning in, the force magnetic, inevitable as gravity – that’s what it’s always felt like. Inevitability, the two of them. Inevitable, that they would be together again, even though they’ve done a number on themselves, on this thing they had, and on each other. It’d been him, mostly, him fucking them up, but he’s got what feels like a second shot now and he’s not giving up. Not fucking it up again even though he thinks fucking things up is probably his MO by now, must be coded somewhere in his DNA.

And she’s there, suddenly, her left thigh pressed against his right, tossing the bottle of liquor away. And she goes in to kiss him, all at once, zeroing in on his lips and making to press hers down there but stopping just before she can, mere millimeters away. Her breath is like steam against his face. She’s so close it’s jarring, senses whirring out of control into sensory overload: the smell of her freshly-washed hair, the press of her skin, the sight of her, delectable and flushed.

“I missed you,” she breathes across his lips. “I thought-”

He kisses her silent. Kisses her and swallows whatever words she’d been planning on saying in seconds. He’s done with words, tonight; words are nothing. Words are meaningless, paltry things and he could say a million of them, talk them both to death but he won’t. He could tell her he loves her or he could show her and right now he thinks he’s going to adhere to the whole _actions speak louder than words_ thing, and so he surges forward, kissing her slow, soft at first but not tentative, and deepening it quickly. His hand works its way into her hair, combing through the wet strands, stroking it, just like he knows she likes. It makes her shudder beneath his touch and hum against his lips, diving in deeper, so small and slight but suddenly so ferocious, intent on consuming him. It’s like she’s pouring everything into their kiss: all her anger from these months apart, all her hurt, all her fear that she’d lost him. Everything she’d thought she’d lost and everything she’s so immeasurably _happy_ she’s found again.

He feels like he should be jittery, nervous, to touch her like this after so long, but he isn’t – she’s always had this effect on him, calmed him. He’s always been chaos, madness, and she’s always cancelled him out, set him at ease. Equilibrium. That’s what being with her feels like: restoring equilibrium.

Frank pulls away briefly, eyebrows raised. “Yeah you missed me alright.”

She catches his bottom lip between her teeth, biting down hard enough just to make him grunt, and grinning, almost feral. “Shut up.”

So he does. He shuts up.

He shuts up and Laurel is clambering her way into his lap then, all long, agile limbs and soft skin, her intentions clear. Her hands go to the buttons on her shirt, slipping them through the holes slowly, probably with the express purpose of torturing him, parting it down the middle, rubbing her lips together, eyeing him and burning on top of him like a little flame. Suddenly there’re her breasts before him; perfect and pert just like he remembers, and so much of her skin that it goddamn near sends him reeling, too much to take in at once. He wonders for a moment if he should stop her, stop this before it goes too far because it’s been so long since he’s seen her, really seen her, that he’s no longer entirely sure what she’s thinking or what she wants and even if she really wants _this_. Him.

She can’t, after everything he’s done. She can’t still want him, not really, and the thought makes him freeze, the smirk on his face faltering.

Laurel notices. She notices everything, like always, and goes still atop him. “What’s wrong?”

“You want this?” he asks, voice raspy. Her lithe little hands go to his chest and she furrows her brow, tilting her head to one side, adorably confused. “I mean – really want this?”

She seems to realize what he’s thinking, right then. About what she’d said to him, the first time she’d seen him after he’d left; at that shitty grey Coalport motel in the middle of nowhere. They’d fought and it’d been fifty shades of ugly; she’d called him a monster, told him she didn’t want him anywhere near her ever again, and she hadn’t been wrong to want that. He hadn’t blamed her, but it’s so hard for him to believe that she could want him, now, and he almost doesn’t. He almost thinks one of these times he’s going to touch her and she’s going to turn to dust, and he’ll wake up from a dream like he’d done so many times, alone, without her.

The thing about losing people is that you get used to it, eventually. He’d resigned himself to it, losing her. He can hardly believe she’s here now.

“If I didn’t want you,” she breathes, reaching out and placing her hands on his cheeks, urging him to meet her eyes, “why would I be here?”

She’s right. She chose this, he reminds himself. She chose _him_ and not Annalise or Bonnie or the Puppy or any of the others. She chose him and yeah, he may not deserve it; in fact he’s so fucking far from deserving it, deserving _her_ , that it blows his damn mind sometimes that she did pick him. He may not deserve her and she can’t fix him, can’t save him. He doesn’t want her to try.

He just wants her. He wants her so bad he aches with it.

With that in mind Frank kisses her again, tugging her closer than close, so close he thinks she’s liable to meld into him, and he doesn’t think he’d mind that at all. He kisses her and drops his lips down to her neck, then her collarbone and breasts, finishing off the rest of the buttons himself so carelessly he thinks he pops a few. She laughs, a high, reedy sound that flutters, melodic like a song, and reaches out, tugging his black t-shirt up and over his head, and then taking in the sight revealed to her: his pecs, chiseled abdomen, the firm thickness of his biceps, eyes hungry. But she doesn’t waste much time spectating.

This isn’t show and tell. Not some damn museum. She can touch all she wants and she does; Laurel’s always been a woman of action. Tactile and receptive and eager.

She pounces like a feline, capturing his lips again and forcing her weight forward to send him toppling back onto the bed, landing with a surprised _oof_. She still hasn’t shucked the unbuttoned shirt, seems to be intent on tormenting him with just a little taste of her skin, limiting him to a glimpse. A tease – she’s always been a tease, same as him. Laurel goes for his belt next, fingers nimble and dexterous as they undo the button on his jeans and yank down the fly. She’s being hasty, not wasting any time and under any other circumstances he would go along with it, kick off his pants ASAP and remove every other barrier between them to get down to it. But not now.

He wants to go slow. Slow and sweet. Too fast and he misses things, forgets to cherish her, worship her like he ought to. He’s had his fair share of fucking and being fucked in his lifetime and he just wants to make love to her now, tender as anything. Slow. He wants it slow, however cheesy that sounds. And it sounds pretty goddamn cheesy and sappy, and he’s so lost in her right then that he can’t bring himself to care.

Clothes off; his and hers. He doesn’t know how, just that it happens one way or another. She’s on top of him know, straddling him, framing his hips easily with her legs and taking in the sight of him from above, from this new angle. It’s unnerving, almost, how intently she stares at him though he’s sure he’s done it to her a million times, like she’s making some new discovery just taking him in. He’s hard, cock standing at attention for her, thick and long and not at all inconspicuous, yet somehow he barely notices, and she seems more fixated on his face than anything else. She looks like a vision, dark, damp hair spilling down her shoulders with that new brighter tint he adores, waist curving in like an hourglass, her stomach a flat plane, sinewy arms at her sides, face just the right mixture of sharp angles and curves, all that quiet strength about her. She’s perfection – every inch of her, sculpted and crafted to perfection by a god, maybe, or a goddess. Perfection made flesh. He could look at her for hours and never get bored, not once.

He’s always been one to take things for granted but he’s not doing that with her again. Not _ever_ again.

“So…” she sighs, and looks down at him, and seems almost tearful, suddenly; happy or sad, he can’t tell which. The look vanishes quickly, though, and she bites her lower lip, gnawing on a grin. “Miss me?”

She asks the question again and he grins back, almost giddy. “You just like hearin’ me say I did.”

“Yeah,” Laurel murmurs, and cocks her head to one side, all her wet hair tumbling again with it and stray droplets of water spraying lightly on him from above. She gives a little giggle, her face lighting up, _all_ of her lighting up and he basks in it. In her. “I do.”

The world around them is a mess, all of it. And hell, _he’s_ a mess, on too many different levels to count, and in a lot of ways she is too. And somehow she’s found it in herself to love him in spite of it all, in spite of his darkness, like Persephone letting Hades drag her down but somehow, some way, bringing him up above too, shedding some of her sunlight on him. Her boundless mercy.

He doesn’t know how he ever thought leaving her was a good idea. No fucking _clue_.

Laurel moves forward, then, wrapping her fingers around his cock and going to line herself up with him but he shakes his head suddenly, placing his hands on her hips to stop her. He could have her like that, let her ride him and it would be hot as hell but he’s not sure he particularly wants that tonight, not after going so long without her. She could ride him but that wouldn’t be enough, not enough skin-to-skin, not enough touching her, _feeling_ her.

“Like this,” he purrs, and guides her off of him to the side, rolling her over so that she’s lying next to him and he’s spooning her from behind. “Let’s do it like this.”

It’s not preferable: he can’t see her face and he’ll be the first to admit that’s one of his favorite things about all this, watching her while she comes, as the pleasure crests in her and her mouth drops open into that immaculate, sensual ‘O,’ and her eyes squeeze shut, and she shakes to pieces. But out of nowhere there’s so much more of her skin on his, warm, raging with the same fever in him, and he knows what he wants, then. What he wants desperately.

He just wants to _hold_ her.

He doesn’t care what they do tonight so long as he can hold her, wrap his arms around her and feel the brush of her body on his. So many nights he’s spent alone between cold sheets and now having her lying beside him is such a sharp contrast, but a welcome one, God it’s a welcome one. He wants to hold her and he does, curling himself around her, spooning her from behind, scissoring their limbs together and lifting one of her legs ever so slightly to grant him access to where he knows she wants him. Where he wants _himself_ just as much as she does.

She’s panting madly now, like she’s coming up for air, and she’s rolled over onto her back towards him enough that he can catch brief glimpses of her face as he takes his cock in hand, gliding it against her folds, across her lap, grinding it onto her clit – nothing rough. Nothing to make her beg. Maybe the old him would’ve; would’ve made her wait and make her plead before he’d enter her but not now, he doesn’t want that now. He circles his arm around her, under the pretense of kneading one of her breasts when really all he wants to do is cradle her, and presses kisses to her neck with renewed desperation, as if trying to convey over and over just how much he needs her. Just how much he’s missed her.

How he almost literally died without her.

“Frank,” she moans, hips stuttering forward, a fresh rush of her wetness coating his tip. She writhes on her side, squirming and whining and grinding her ass back against him, and it’s all heaven; he’s never known heaven like this. He’s still hard, unbearably hard and throbbing in his hand, pinned against her, so close to where he wants to be but so far. She gives what sounds like a growl of frustration mixed with a keening whimper; one of those bizarre, unique sounds of hers he’s come to love. “Frank… God, ple-”

She has magical powers. She controls him. He’s her puppet, her slave, her dog, her anything, he’d be her anything and so she doesn’t have to ask twice; doesn’t even have to finish asking _once_. He thrusts his hips forward, slipping inside her so effortlessly, burying himself between her folds but not going overly deep, or even very hard. It’s a gentle movement, slow transition, and he relishes the feeling of her walls expanding exquisitely around him, taking his cock like she was made for it. He luxuriates in it, in _her_. He groans, burying his face into her throat and coiling himself around her body even more until he almost swallows her up, and she’s panting, harder, crying out things that don’t make a whole lot of sense. He doesn’t move, for a moment, and when he does he goes slow, very slow. Unhurried, and he’s _not_ in a hurry now and neither is she; they’ve got time. They’ve wasted time but they have more now, a long expanse of hours and minutes and days for them to fill up however they choose.

 _This_ … This is just the start.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” she sputters, crass as always while in the throes of ecstasy, cunt quivering, adjusting to him. Her left hand goes for the sheets, balling them up in her first and he’s quick to reach down, lacing his thick fingers in with hers instead, squeezing her hand as he starts to move. Just wanting to touch her. That’s all he wants, for the rest of his life: to touch her. “O-oh, _oh_ …”

“You good?” Frank undertones against her neck, feeling the bristle and scratch of his beard against her skin.

“Yeah,” she breathes, and nods, her face almost buried in the pillow beneath her head. She chokes out a laugh. “Y-yeah what do you think?”

He can’t even see much of her but he knows how beautiful she looks regardless; she always is. Laurel Castillo is beautiful and it’s her natural state and it’s, quite plainly, just a fucking law of nature, and she’s a _force_ of nature. He’s wrapped around her like a vine, like he could live this way forever and he’s pretty sure he could. His thrusts are slow, lazy, but not sloppy or imprecise; he knows what he’s doing because the months they’ve spent apart haven’t changed the fact that he knows her body, has charted each crevice and pleasure point and blemish and knows them to a T. It’s not something he’d even ever consciously done, something that’d happened to his body, his mind on its own, knowledge he’d locked away until he needed it again – and he needs it now, and it’s all come back to him so naturally. His movements are slow, and lazy, but there’s desperation in them, too; so much desperation. He’s wrapped around her, clinging to her, pressing needy kisses to her neck. He never wants to let go again. He _won’t._

He needs her so bad, wants her so bad and fuck, he just really wants her to _know_ that – and so he figures right about now is when some damn words could come in handy.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against her neck, her jawline. His voice almost breaks, brimming with sincerity, and he’s never been good with words but he’s trying, trying his damnedest. “I missed you so fucking much, Laurel…” He pauses. Steadies his voice, and mostly succeeds. “I’ll never leave again. Promise. I fuckin’… I promise I’ll never go anywhere again. Ever.”

She gives his hand a squeeze, their fingers still intertwined on the sheets, and pants out a laugh. “You better not.”

“I mean it,” he tells her, nipping at her ear. “I mean it, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” she gasps back, her mouth dropping open into a moan. “I… _God_ …”

He has so many questions, bubbling up in his throat. _You don’t hate me, right? You still want me, right? You still want_ this _, right?_ It’s desperate, all of it. Pathetic and needy. He’s never felt like this before, been so utterly terrified of losing someone before; he’d lost Laurel once, and it’d nearly killed him. If he ever lost her again he thinks it very goddamn well might do him in for good.

“I love you,” he says, and he considers holding it back but he’s held so much back from her for so long that he just can’t fucking stand to do it anymore, choke down the words, bite his tongue. He’s told her everything tonight and God help him he’s going to tell her this too. His lips are at her neck again before he knows it, hot and wet, coating her skin with saliva and sucking the beginnings of faint marks onto her pulse point. 

“I love you too,” she murmurs back, without hesitation. The words fall from her lips so instinctively that he knows in an instant she means them, isn’t just saying them for his sake. She grows serious, suddenly, voice wobbling. “Never… n-never do that again. Never leave me again-”

“I won’t,” he promises, and presses a kiss to her temple, with all the love and affection in the world, so much he can feel himself dripping with it, can feel it seeping out of every one of his pores, every one of his kisses. “I promise.”

He loves her so much he doesn’t know how to handle it and never has, and maybe never will. So much it feels like it could kill him.

Laurel relaxes next to him after the initial surge of him entering her, sighing contently, and his thrusts become almost idle – still with enough force to make her build toward that delicious edge but build slowly, build and feel that anticipation simmer low in her belly. Build so that she can feel every single solitary centimeter closer that she creeps, that he _makes_ her creep. And he doesn’t like this position because it doesn’t afford him the ability to see her face but it does afford them comfort, the freedom to go as fast or as slow as they want – and he wants slow. Languid. He wants to feel her. Wants _her_ to feel _him_.

The other advantage is that they can actually sort of hold a conversation, like this. And he’d said he was swearing off words for the night but he can’t help it, now that she’s here, now that he has her like this.

“Tell me,” he teases, lips on her shoulder now. He watches her breasts bounce with every movement he makes, spellbound, “how’d you get your rocks off while I was gone, hm?”

Again, her laugh is mixed in with a series of gasps. “What, like I don’t have fingers too?”

“Touché,” he chuckles, and reaches down, releasing her hand and groping between her legs until he finds her clit and works the little bundle of nerve endings back and forth leisurely, in time with his thrusts. “Ever think about me?”

“Of course.” Her voice is almost a scoff. “You’re the only person I ever… think about – oh, fuck…”

She’s tensing beside him; he can feel her. Her back is arching, hips rotating. Toes curling. Muscles going taut and tight. The crescendo of pleasure steals the words off her tongue, turns them into murmured nonsense, mingled with gasps and pants and mewls. He can feel it in her cunt, clenching and trembling and then releasing, pulling him deeper, tightening around him so divinely, in the way she shivers beneath his touch – and he doesn’t want to make her wait a second longer than she has to.

He goes for broke. He moves away from her clit and takes his cock in hand instead, pulling out ever so slightly to get a good grip, feeling himself slick with her wetness, then moves back inside her and starts to piston himself in and out, not hard but _rapid_ , frenzied, generating that extra friction he knows she needs, that he can’t give her by simply moving his hips. Her response is instantaneous: her mouth drops open, body shifting back, closer to him. She squirms and pants and swears and moans, God, she _moans_ like a wild animal, letting go of his hand and using it to grab a fistful of the sheets again. He fucks her, using his cock on her like a toy, able to feel where they’re joined, where that delicate ring of muscle at her entrance stretches for him, and it’s so erotic and so fucking sinful that he has to stamp down the fire inside him, grit his teeth and try not to come inside her right then, end everything. But this isn’t about him, or what he wants, at least not now. He wants to give her this. _Needs_ to.

“Let go,” he says in her ear, almost a coo, soothing. He kisses her temple again, then her forehead. Somehow he manages to steady his voice, though he feels like he could burst at any second, ruin everything. “Let it happen. Let yourself.” He smirks, then, even if he knows she can’t see it. “Lemme make you come, Laurel, please.”

She does.

He’d asked nicely, and she lets him. She breaks like a dam and suddenly she’s like all that water, flowing out in a torrent, leaving her body for a second and spiraling out of the stratosphere. She moans, low and long and hoarse, from somewhere deep in her chest, nothing like her high-pitched cries, something so much more guttural. Her pussy clenches so tight around him he swears he can feel her heartbeat on the head of his cock, and he fucks her through it, slower now, back to his lazy pace before. So fucking _close_ to her. He’s never felt closer to her than he does now, like this isn’t even closeness now and they’ve attained some level beyond that, some space he never wants to leave. She comes, and comes, and comes, the waves pouring over her and dragging her under, and she lets herself, just like he’d said; lets herself shudder and break down into pieces all over the bed, in his arms. She says all sorts of words, like a poem with no rhyme or rhythm. Every now and then he catches his name somewhere in the mix.

“Oh my God – oh, f-fuck, Frank, God – _God_ -”

He bites back his own cries, focusing on her, even though all he is is a useless ball of nerve endings now, conscious only of the feelings in his cock. Laurel seems to sense that, sense that he’s getting ready to pull out, leave her and she shakes her head vehemently, still trying to catch her breath, in the midst of coming down.

“Inside me,” she breathes and it’s an order, plain and simple; clearly not one he’s allowed to disobey. She gnaws on her lower lip, blinking several times and looking over at him, and humming lowly, moving her hips to meet his thrusts as his rhythm breaks, as he drives himself ever deeper. “Do it, inside me… I want you…”

That’s all it takes: the breathy sound of her voice, tell him to come inside her, telling him she _wants_ him to come inside her. That’s all it takes and he bursts, loses it, coming with a sound like a sob, spilling hot inside her and feeling her milk him for all he’s worth, squeeze him bone-dry like she can’t get enough. It wrings all the air out of his lungs, leaves him gasping for breath next to her, still nestled in close and still curled around her.

Laurel turns her head and shifts back towards him slightly, kissing him before he’s even come done fully, swallowing his moans and cries into her mouth as he rides out the aftershocks. He doesn’t respond for a moment, tense as he is, his lips unmoving beneath hers but once it passes he finds himself kissing her back, the movement almost reflexive, innate. It’s a sweet kiss. Sweet and slow, like everything before, but infused with so much passion and meaning that it makes his head swim.

He loves her. It could legitimately kill him. _She_ could legitimately kill him. That’s all he knows.

“Jesus,” he blurts out, after a moment, exhaling deeply. “ _Fuck_ , I missed that.”

“Just that?” she teases, still rolled onto her side away from him but craning her neck back slightly. “Or me too?”

“Both. All of it. All of _you_ ,” he almost growls, and kisses her again because he’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to do anything else, even breathe. “God, I missed you so much you don’t even know…”

“I know.” She laughs, freely; the most genuine laugh he’s seen her give in a long, long time. “I do.”

They lay there for a while longer, in the silence. He doesn’t pull out; it doesn’t feel right to leave her just yet – and finally, when he assumes that it’s probably been long enough, that maybe it’s uncomfortable for her now he makes to pull out, move away.

But she stops him, gripping his wrist in protest. Her eyes are closed and she’s facing away from him, and she’s drifting closer to sleep but her hold on him is firm, words just as much so.

“No,” she murmurs, and yawns, making him freeze before he can move his cock another inch. “No, stay. Stay with me.”

_Don’t leave me. Not even now, not any part of you, not ever. Please._

So he doesn’t. He stays put, right where his softening cock is sheathed inside her, right where he knows he’s home. He won’t leave her, not ever again, and he may be dumb, pretty damn dumb in the grand scheme of things but he’s not dumb enough to make that same mistake twice.

“Okay,” he murmurs back, settling one of his hands down on her hip, letting the scent of her body and the scent of sex flow over him. And that’s all he says – all he has to say.

She drifts, and before long he’s drifting with her like she’s pulling him along for the ride, roping him in with her, out to that warm oblivion. And he falls asleep like that: wrapped around her, still inside her. Never doubting that she’s near. Never needing to.

She’s here. She is. She’s with him.


	9. Pregnant sex, mild pregnancy kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t really know when this takes place? In some weird AU of season 3 where Frank still works for Annalise but Laurel is still pregnant. And the clinic is also a thing. Who knows. 
> 
> The point is… smut.

Pregnancy is one hell of a strange, beautiful, messy, wild, fucked-up journey. And Frank knows this.

He’s done his reading; _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ and a whole other plethora of baby books borrowed from the library, articles, WebMD and some selective dabbling in Wikipedia. He’s sat through his dad’s long, droning recounts of his ma’s pregnancies, his aunt’s thirty-minute graphic lecture about how childbirth had torn her up in a lot of very unsavory, _very_ unmentionable places, his thrice-divorced great-uncle’s rather indifferent accounts of his experiences with fatherhood – which might explain why some of his distant pill-popping cousins are so jacked up, now that he thinks about it. He’s done his reading and his research and his listening, for hours upon hours. Poring over whatever he can get his hands on at work until Bonnie mocks him for it.

He’d thought he was prepared, to deal with a pregnant Laurel and all her new, peculiar idiosyncrasies, her roulette wheel of constantly shifting emotions and irrational whims. He really had.

As is generally the case, he’d been dead wrong.

He gets home from work early one evening in November when it’s still light out thanks to one of their clients’ outburst in court, which had subsequently shot their case in the foot and pretty much handed the DA’s office their guilty verdict on a silver platter. Annalise had turned to one of her trusty bottles of vodka to soothe the burn after they’d gotten back to the office, and sent him and Bonnie away; an order he wasn’t all that upset to oblige.

Laurel is standing at the counter in the kitchenette when he steps inside, and turns when she hears him toss his keys down on the coffee table with a metallic _clatter_.

“Hey,” he greets, and she gives him a smile back, though it seems forced, off. A bit stiff.

“Hey. You’re home early.”

She’s making herself something – what looks like a sandwich, Frank thinks. Probably piled with the anchovies and tuna she’s inexplicably acquired a taste for recently, which he’d joked must mean their kid’s going to come out with gills or something. She’s changed out of her clothes from work, into a loose red tank top which expands outward in the front slightly to accommodate her growing belly, and a pair of lazy grey sweatpants, feet bare. And there’s nothing particularly remarkable about her appearance – other than, you know, the fact that he always finds her fucking gorgeous, regardless of what she wears.

Except the flush on her cheeks; beet red and standing out not at all inconspicuously against her pale skin. And when he looks closer he swears he can see sweat beading on her brow, making her skin catch the light and gleam faintly.   

“How was your day?” she asks, words terse, clipped, and that’s all he needs to hear to know something is up; he can read her better than anyone, probably knows her better than he knows himself.  

“Shitty,” he quips, shrugging off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “Better, now that I’m with you.”

Laurel grins, lowering her eyes back down to her food, and it makes his stupid heart stutter, give out inside him for a moment like a little malfunctioning machine. He has a half-second-long flicker of desire to go to her, kiss her on the cheek, hold her and give her the whole honey-I’m-home spiel, but he doesn’t. They’re not together; not anymore, at least. After everything they’d agreed it was best to keep things platonic, not risk getting tangled up with each other again and fighting and fucking up their future child’s stable home life, which they’d both agreed was something they wanted for them. It’s for the best, this way. He knows that.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate it, though. Hate living with Laurel but not _with_ Laurel, always kept at arm’s length. Watching her grow with their child; grow and blossom and become more beautiful by the day.

Loving her, still. Loving her and being so close to her and so _fucking_ far away.

He shakes the thoughts away and approaches, frowning. “You okay?”

Laurel glances over at him, feigning nonchalance but reacting far too quickly to actually _seem_ nonchalant. “Huh?”

“You… look warm,” is all he says. “You feel all right? If you got a fever I-”

“Yeah,” she hisses, curling in on herself defensively. He thinks she goes even redder right then, when he comes to a stop beside her, refusing to meet his eyes. She slathers mayonnaise onto a piece of wheat bread, using the knife with far more aggression than she needs. “I’m fine.”

She’s not fine. This is a textbook case of _not fine_. He can only assume he’s fucked something up some way, even if he doesn’t know it because fucking up seems to be his MO, and so Frank furrows his brow, moving in closer.

“Did I… do somethin’ wrong, or-”

“No,” she bites out, and sighs, muttering under her breath, “No, you haven’t done… anything. And maybe that’s the problem.”

He blinks. “What?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just – I’m fine, Frank.”

“You’re not fine,” he asserts, frown deepening. She still won’t look at him and admittedly, the knife situation is making him more than a little nervous for his wellbeing. “Look, if I did somethin’… at least tell me what it is, so I can-”

“I’m horny, okay?” she cuts him off, sharply, rounding on him all at once. He freezes, eyes widening, and she exhales, looking equal parts embarrassed and livid about the fact. “I just… My hormones are out of control, and I can’t stop thinking about sex. And that’s… what it is.” She swallows, shaking her head but not turning back to her sandwich. “All day I’ve just been so… hot. Even at the clinic. I-I was like two seconds from pouncing on Wes. Or Asher. Or – God, even _Connor_.”

“That’s…” he blurts out, dumbly, somewhere between stunned and amused. “That’s what’s wrong. You’re horny.”

“Yes,” Laurel spits, eyes watering with embarrassment. She folds her arms across her stomach, just barely obscuring the four-month-old bump growing there, larger by the day. “There. Are you happy now? That’s what’s wrong.”

Oh.

Oh. Okay.

So he doesn’t really know how to deal with this.   

He’d thought he’d done his research, reading up on all sorts of weird cravings and hormonal changes and other sundry pregnancy side effects – but somehow he’d missed the chapter titled Amplified Libido: When Your Partner Suddenly Wants to Bone Everyone Within a Five-Mile Radius. And so he stands there dumbly for a moment in semi-shock, mouth moving without articulating any words, so still that Laurel fidgets uncomfortably beneath his gaze, shifting her weight from leg to leg and, he swears, pressing her thighs together to stop up the flow of desire between them.

“I’ve tried to take my mind off it,” she continues, lowering her eyes and looking down at her body, suddenly self-conscious. “I took, like, three cold showers in a row. And meditated. And I… got myself off a few times, and nothing’s helping. I’ve tried _everything_.”

He clenches his jaw. He should _not_ be thinking about Laurel like that, in any way, shape, or form; imagining her slipping her hand between her thighs and fucking herself with her fingers and moaning wantonly, writhing, desperate to come, desperate for any kind of relief. He shouldn’t be – not when they’re not together, not when they’ve sworn off each other because realistically all they seem to be capable of doing is hurting each other, over and over.

He shouldn’t be thinking about Laurel that way.

He _is_. And he’s fucked on so many levels it’s not even funny.

“Well…” Frank swallows, throat tightening, head swimming, a heavy, sweet ache forming inside of him, somewhere low in his belly, and shrugs. “Haven’t tried me.”

Laurel stares at him, for a moment, speechless – even though somehow he can tell the thought has crossed her mind today, probably more than once. But if it has she seems determined to give no outward sign of it and shakes her head, turning away from him and stalking across the room with a scoff, into his little living area.

“No,” she says, shaking her head and laughing like he’s gone crazy, and maybe he has, maybe he went nuts a long time ago. “No, that’s… that’s not a good idea.”

He frowns, and follows. “I can help, Laurel-”

“We’re exes who’re living in the same apartment and having a baby together, Frank,” she asserts, placing her hands on her hips. “This… definitely does not need to get any weirder than it already is.”

“It’s not weird,” he lowers his voice, soothing her, drawing closer. She glowers at him, twin spots of pink still glowing on her cheeks like embers, and he can see through her tank top that she’s not wearing a bra, that her nipples have gone rock-hard underneath the thin fabric like little pebbles and _God_ , he can’t bear to imagine how wet she is, how bad she wants someone, anyone, to relieve her, satiate that dirty hunger. He comes to a stop in front of her and she doesn’t back away, and he swears he can hear her breath hitch in her throat. “Don’t gotta mean anything either. Just use me as your… hormone-relief sex slave. Your own personal meat stick.”

“Is you calling yourself that supposed to turn me on or something?”

“You don’t need anybody to turn you on, Laurel, you’re already goin’ crazy,” he chides gently, and takes a step closer, and he can see the barely-concealed want in her eyes, irises eaten up by huge, black pupils. “It’s not a big deal. I can help.”

She swallows, letting out a shaky breath. He takes yet another step towards her and finally she finds the willpower to back up, further and further until he has her pressed lightly up against the wall, eyes intent, brow furrowed with concern. She’s positively glowing red now, from the crown of her head to her neck and lower, inevitably lower. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and he watches, mesmerized, so close to her it’s almost jarring; he’d forgotten what it feels like, being this close to her, the way she pulls him in, stronger than any force he’s ever known. As inevitable as gravity.

“We can’t,” she breathes, her body giving in to its desires, mind shutting down, eyes going hazy. She squirms, swallowing again. “We shouldn’t do this…”

“Let me help you.” His voice is a plea now. He reaches out, placing his hands on her hips, just to the sides of her burgeoning stomach, offering himself up to her. “Lemme take care of you, okay?”

His lips are at her neck, then, and he presses them down tentatively, sucking at her pulse point, feeling his beard bristle against her skin, listening to the soft moan that looses itself from her throat like the most beautiful music. Her eyelids flutter shut, her body caving and melting against him.

“Frank…”

“You can have me. Use me,” he promises, sincere, though he has to admit he really fucking misses talking dirty to her, so filthy and explicit and detailed he could make the angels in heaven blush. But he tones it down a little, still gauging her comfort level as he is, assessing the situation and finding his footing with her on this new ground. “Any part ‘a me you want. My hands. My mouth.” He pauses, smirking against her throat and feeling her little hands creep up to grasp at his back, and the heat of her, _God_ , she’s burning against him like an inferno of a girl, writhing and gasping. “My cock.”

She makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “ _Jesus_ , Frank…”

“All you gotta do is ask,” he purrs, and his mouth is by her ear now, nipping her earlobe, pricking her and making her rise up on her toes. “Say the word and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.” His voice is raspy, deep, so deep it sends a chill through her. “Anything. I promise.”

“This…” she sputters, looking at him with sudden resoluteness. “This is… just a one-time thing, understand?”

“Really? Only one round?” he murmurs, feigning surprise.

And something snaps in Laurel; breaks wide open and sends the beast caged inside her stampeding out, lights a determined fire in her eyes that makes them glow like two blue-black coals. He can see it, the precise instant she makes up her mind; the instant she gives into the urges of her body, the _need_ brewing inside her like a storm.

“Oh if we don’t go more than one round,” she pants, half-barring her teeth and kissing him, so forcefully it startles Frank, “there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

He raises his eyebrows.

He’s starting to think he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.

But Frank stays calm, as equanimous as ever, and lets her get her fill of him, drinking him up like a woman dying of thirst, and they haven’t kissed in so long but they don’t have to try to rediscover that rhythm, that perfect synchrony they’ve always had. She runs her hand through his slick hair and his hands roam her body, pawing at her breasts over her tank top, then creeping underneath the hem at the bottom, brushing ever-so-lightly across the swell of her stomach reverently. Sometimes he still can’t believe it’s real, that this child is theirs, that they made it together, formed it from nothing and now it’s _here_ , growing inside Laurel, that little seed he’d planted taking root and changing her and making its presence more noticeable by the day. Sometimes it makes his head spin to try to comprehend the immensity of this, what they’ve done. This unseen, powerful being they’ve created.

So he doesn’t. All he can think of, right then, is how much he’s missed this. Kissing her. Touching her.

Being with her. God, really just _her._

After a while he draws away, hands still exploring her body and creeping further and further south, and then without warning he reaches up, peeling up her tank top and revealing her bare breasts to him; peaked with stiff pink nipples, pillowy flesh filling the palms of his hands and almost brimming out of them. And he’s always fucking loved her breasts but now, now they fascinate him in a way he can’t put into words, and when he touches them they’re markedly heavier, larger, swelling with the rest of her – because of him. All because of him. She gasps at the rush of cold air on her stomach, goosebumps patterning her skin, and the sound morphs into a moan when he reaches his hands up, catching her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and rolling them gently, sweetly; toying with them. He does it tenderly, careful not to hurt her; he knows how sensitive she is all over, breasts included, knows that the hormones have done and will continue to do a number on her.

But she doesn’t show any sign of pain. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“ _A-ah_ ,” she gasps, hips canting forward instinctively, leaning into his touch. “Oh God, oh – I…”

She doesn’t elaborate beyond that. Frank smirks, keeping up his ministrations. “You go braless at the office today or somethin’? Give everybody a show?”

“Took it off when I got home,” she manages to choke out, breathing ragged. “It was too tight. They’re… bigger, now.”

He swallows, the words traveling straight to his cock, which is aching and straining against the front of his slacks now, a bull in its cage, ready and rearing to go. Maybe it’s twisted, perverse to find this erotic – all the changes in her, in her breasts and stomach and waist, but they’re erotic and fascinating and all _his_. She’s like this because of him, because he gave her his child and he doesn’t know if there’s a single fucking thing in the world that’s hotter than that, than watching her grow, than seeing her look so completely, totally, undoubtedly _his_.

After a moment Laurel manages to steady her voice, shuddering beneath his touch. “I can feel everything. So much more. Everything’s… so sensitive, I can’t-” She whimpers, and he kisses the needy sound, tasting that need on her lips. “I can’t stop throbbing. All over. Everywhere.”

He clenches his jaw, massaging her nipples and biting back a moan of his own. “Laurel…”

Her hand darts out to grab his, suddenly, yanking it away from her breast and dragging it down past the thick waistband of her sweatpants, then further into them, between her legs, where she holds it, as if to prove a point. It happens so fast it doesn’t register for Frank for a moment, and when it does he grinds his teeth harder, feeling his cock begin to positively leak.

Fuck. Fuck, he’s most _definitely_ bitten off more than he can chew tonight.

“This is what it’s doing to me,” she pants against his lips, sighing as he glides his hand up and down her folds, cupping her mound and keeping his other hand on her breast, attending to it idly. “I-it’s driving me crazy, Frank.”

She’s wet – wetter than he’s ever felt. Sopping wet. _Drenched_ , her juices smeared thickly on the insides of her thighs, flowing out of her in abundance; so much it’s obscene, downright filthy. She’s so wet his hand slides across her slippery folds effortlessly, from the base of her pussy to the hood of her clit, feeling the heat brewing there, that simmering lake of lava, her cunt so hot and voracious that it seems to almost want to draw his fingers inside. It sets his head reeling, mouth watering, want fizzling in his blood, and he swallows heavily, trying to stamp down the fire inside him, keep from pushing her back against the wall and fucking her with his fingers until she’s weak and keening and trembling – but he doesn’t.

He won’t. That’s not how he wants this to go down, not after he’s waited so long to have her again. Have _this_.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs under his breath, his chest clenching almost painfully. He brushes his lips across hers, stilling his hand between her legs, and she inhales sharply, giving a mewl of dissatisfaction. “It’s _this_ bad?”

She nods, rising up on her toes again and hissing when his thumb catches her clit, nerve endings jumping in response. “I couldn’t… sit still. All day, I-” She cuts herself off, gulping audibly. “I can’t wait any more.”

“Then you don’t have to,” Frank declares, suddenly determined, and winks. “Anything for my baby mama. Let’s get you taken care of.”

And that’s that. Laurel doesn’t protest, and Frank doesn’t stop again, ask her for permission, make sure she’s certain. He knows she’s certain. In fact he’s not sure he’s seen Laurel look more certain of anything in the time he’s known her, and so before either of them can say another word he’s lifted her up in his arms, letting her coil her thin legs around him to anchor her body to his and holding her there, absorbing her surprised squeak with a kiss. She’s heavier, sure; not much but too much to go unnoticed, and he doesn’t care, cherishes the familiar strain in his muscles as they hold her, the feeling of her skin on his. He’s careful, too; careful not to press too much on her belly, not to falter or drop her or squeeze her too tight.

Protect her. Keep her happy. Those are his core commands.

They kiss as he makes his way into his bedroom, and Laurel manages a breathless laugh against his lips, “I hate that name.”

“You love it,” he quips, and she doesn’t argue. He knows she does, secretly.

She’ll deny it to the death. But he knows she does.

It’s hard as hell to navigate his apartment with a Laurel Castillo attached to him by the mouth, but Frank makes do, and lets her down lightly onto the bed when he reaches it, spreading her out and eyeing her as he strips; not slowly, nothing to put on a show. He strips methodically, movements sharp and precise and purposeful, and she watches from below, brushing her fingers across her lower lip; the embodiment of desire, almost quivering with it. Her hair is splayed out on the bedding beneath her, a dark halo around her head, legs spread slightly as if preparing to welcome him between them, and again he runs his eyes over the growing bulge in her stomach, feeling that intense, primal urge inside him, bubbling under his skin. To protect her. Protect them both. Keep her happy and give her anything she needs even if it means crawling like a dog at her feet. _Anything_.

He falls at her side once he’s finished, resting most of his weight beside her to keep from pressing on her abdomen, and kissing her again. It isn’t long before he has her stripped too and he can bask in the sight of her naked skin, her pale, perfect fields of flesh; her breasts and stomach and shoulders, that body he thinks he knows almost better than his own, and there’s so much of it, so much of _her_ suddenly that it’s sensory overload, almost overwhelming. It feels like it’s been ages since he’s seen her like this, so long he’s been deprived, tormented. Torment – that’s what it’s been, living with her all these months. Being able to look but not touch. He kisses her deeper, so deep he thinks he can taste the darkest, most hidden parts of her, all of her. And he knows he’s never losing this again – not if he has anything to say about it.

As it turns out, however, Laurel _does_ have something to say about it.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she asserts, as he reaches up to cup her breasts again, peppering her collarbone with scratchy kisses. “This is… this is just a business arrangement, got it?”

He grins, pausing at his work. “Yeah? What kinda terms we talkin’ here?”

“You did this to me,” she pants, and moans when he closes his lips around one of her nipples. “You… take care of me. Then we’re even.”

“Then we’re even,” he echoes, eyes dancing. “Roger that.” He pauses and meets her eyes, nipping at her jawline, catching the skin there between his teeth. “How’d you do it, huh?”

Confusion flickers in her eyes. “Do what?”

“Touch yourself. How’d you do it?” he purrs. “Tell me.”

Probably old-Laurel would’ve been game and played along, talked dirty to him and given him what he’s fishing for, but the question just seems to piss hormonal-Laurel off, a whole hell of a lot. Her eyes light up again and this time it’s very obviously with anger, _not_ lust. Pure, unadulterated fury.

So he’s made a misstep. Shit.

In his defense that seems to be _very_ fucking easy to do, these days.

“What do you wanna hear?” she hisses, but her voice is still strained, airy. She shifts, rubbing her thighs together, ostensibly to generate some friction between them. Something. Anything. “That I fucked myself on my fingers until I came and imagined it was you? Is that what you want?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m guessing foreplay’s a no-go?”

“Stop _talking_ , Frank,” Laurel whimpers, jaw clenched, eyes closed, “and make your mouth useful for once.”

Okay. He gets it. Foreplay is definitely a no-go.

So he eyes her, business-like as ever, pragmatic, with almost a long-suffering air about him, and deadpans, “How do you want me?”

“Eat me out,” is all Laurel says, barking the order and spreading her legs for emphasis. And so he does.

He’s always been a simple man and he’s good at simple commands – exceedingly so. Like a dog, almost. _Sit. Roll over. Stand._

 _Eat me out_. He can do that.

He’s always considered going down on Laurel to be one of his many talents, as a matter of fact, a skill he’s honed same as any craftsman, and so he nods, descending dutifully, kissing his way up and over the gentle hill of her stomach, then venturing down to the steep, angular valley between her thighs, the rolling mound nestled there, tantalized by the geography of her body, which seems to be ever-changing in recent weeks, with all sorts of shifts and variations, her pregnancy like plate tectonics, transforming her. He loves it, all those changes. Loves _her_ , and really wants to make sure she knows that, right then.

But this is business. No love involved. No feelings.

Just business and pleasure. And God knows Frank’s always been partial to mixing the two.

So he drops his jaw and leans in and goes to town on her, not sparing her a bit of gentleness, not teasing her or starting slow or making her beg for his mouth; he’s pretty sure if he makes her beg now she’d probably kill him, clamp her thighs around his face and smother him to death or some other kind of cruel and unusual punishment. He kisses her like he’d kiss her other set of lips, slow and deep, savoring her scent, all that mouth-watering musk, and the taste of her – which is different, now. Different like all the rest of her, and sweeter, impossibly sweet, with new notes of flavor he doesn’t recognize. She’s changing, all the time, everyday more and more, and he loves acquainting himself with these new parts of her. All of her.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” she groans, the sound almost guttural, ripped from deep in her lungs. She reaches down, tugging at his hair, yanking him closer – almost brutally, so hard his scalp burns but he doesn’t protest, barely even flinches. Her hips buck up towards the heat of his mouth, and he can taste a fresh rush of wetness on his tongue as he laps her up with long, rough, relentless sweeps, drinking her down like honey. “O-oh God, fuck, don’t… don’t stop-”

He doesn’t. If he has any goddamn thing to say about it he won’t – ever. He’ll spend the rest of his life like this, on his knees for her, at her beck and call, and his knees and cock ache but somehow he barely cares, barely has even an echo of a thought about the fact; his body feels like some foreign, cold, robotic thing that doesn’t really exist and sure as hell doesn’t matter, not so long as he’s eating Laurel out. She’s all that matters, all that’ll ever matter; the focal point of his whole world. He tongues around her folds forcefully, sucking on her labia and then her deliciously sensitive clit, feeling his beard scrape her there and when it does she almost screams, jerking and twitching beneath his mouth. Hell she’s been almost screaming this entire time, so pent-up and frustrated all day that she’s about to burst – which she does, very quickly, as a matter of fact. So fast it startles him.

Before he even has time to get to the best part and employ any real technique she’s coming, long and hard and fast, shuddering out her release above him, screaming so loud he’s pretty sure half the city can hear her. She gushes hot into his mouth and he doubles his efforts to keep up with the flow of her and _God_ , he’s never seen her come this quickly, ever, _or_ seen her come this hard. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d said she needed to get off, and when she comes she _comes_ , so hard he thinks ‘coming’ almost isn’t powerful enough a word to describe it. It unravels her. Destroys her. Shatters her into a million little pieces all over the sheets, and he licks her through it, not stopping but backing off somewhat, feeling her delectably fresh juices spill down his chin, soak his beard. She’s everywhere. _All over_ him. He’ll taste her for days, after this.

Good. He wants to.

“Frank!” she cries, and it’s the only thing she says that he can make out, the only thing that sounds even remotely close to English. “I – f-fu… God, don’t I… I c… ah, _ah_ -”

He wants to say something, abruptly, but he doesn’t know what. And he doesn’t think she particularly wants to hear it at this moment in time, and he keeps his mouth occupied accordingly. Normally by now he would’ve slowed down, eased back and started to retreat and let her come down, but there’s a humming in bones suddenly; a fearsome, overwhelming desire to see her come again. She needs it. She’s horny as all get out, driven crazy by hormones and so much more receptive to his touch and he’s going to do this job, give her what she needs. Hold up his end of the arrangement even if it kills him.

He’s a man of his word, after all.

So he starts again, goes back to work like he’s on the goddamn clock. Harder, faster. Decidedly more determined. He fucks into her with his tongue and doubles his efforts on her clit and slides two thick fingers into her before she’s even had time to recover properly, and her reaction is almost violent, some strange combination of trying to simultaneously push him away and tug him closer. Her body bows and buckles under the weight of her climax, crunching upward, and when he glances up at her he can see she’s propped herself up on one elbow to watch him devour her. She’s sweat-soaked, now, face so red it glows, strands of dark hair plastered to her forehead, thighs splayed apart, holding his head there like she intends to make him eat her out for hours. After a moment she falls back down and reaches a hand up, pawing at one of her breasts, so frantic for any stimulation she can get that she half-sobs, in frustration and pleasure.

“Oh fuck, fuck me, don’t-” Her voice catches in her throat, blends into a moan; a low, rough, animalistic moan, nothing high-pitched or melodic about it. She’s bucking wildly now, her whole body quivering as one wave crests and builds steadily into the next. “Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’t…”

It’s remarkable, how easy it is to undo her like this. It’s such a glorious sight to behold that he almost comes right then and there, just listening to her.

And he can’t tell her he loves her, and he knows this – not out loud anyway, so Frank settles for the next best thing and spells it on her with his tongue, changing up his patterns on her clit. He makes a sloppy line downward, some shitty excuse for an I, then follows with the L and O, and by the time he makes it to the V he can tell she’s on the brink again, so deliciously raw and sensitive from her first orgasm that it won’t take much to push her over the top again. She’s pulling at his slick hair like she means to rip it out of his head by the roots, the pressure between her legs building to a crescendo, a chorus of want, screaming and screeching and blinding her. She’s babbling, saying words that don’t make a whole lot of sense, might be Spanish or English or amalgamation of both.

She comes again, and again, and maybe a time after that – he isn’t sure. Everything blurs together into a dream-like haze and all he’s really aware of is the taste of her, the feeling of her wetness coating his face, soaking him so that he’s pretty goddamn sure who he belongs to. It deadens his senses until it’s all he can feel, and he isn’t sure how long it takes him to come back to himself. Might be minutes or hours. Or days.

His whole world is a deep, warm buzz when he draws away and makes his way up beside Laurel, who is panting madly, borderline catatonic on the bed beside him, blissed out and very possibly on the point of _blacking_ out. She can’t seem to catch her breath and so he goes to her, kissing her neck, drawing her close, hoping it hadn’t been too much – for her. For the baby.

Before he wouldn’t have worried about things being more than she could take, because Laurel could take anything he threw at her and give it back twice as good. But he has to be gentler with her now and he knows it. Softer.

Frank swallows heavily, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand, and goes to hold her, soothing, “Hey. Hey, you okay?”

“What…” she manages, somehow. “W-what do you think?”

He frowns. “That mean… yes, or-”

“ _Yes_ it means yes,” Laurel breathes, and gives a loopy little laugh. “Oh my God, that was… amazing. Everything feels…” She shakes her head, bewildered. “I-I feel everything so much more. All over. I’ve never… come like that. _Ever_.”

Frank blinks.

Well. Orgasm-boosting baby hormones. He hadn’t known those were a thing.

He hums lowly, kissing her neck, and before he can help it his eyes and creeping lower, back down to her breasts, her stomach, all the bulging, swelling parts of her. And he feels like a mad man, intoxicated by her pheromones or something but he can’t keep his hands, his mouth off them. He strokes them, massaging her breasts until they ache pleasantly, palming her stomach, cupping that growing swell protectively, so fucking _fascinated_ by it, in a million and one new ways every day. He feels drunk. Drunk on her, on her body, on all the amazing, mind-blowing, gravity-defying things it’s doing for their child.

 _Pheromones_ , he thinks again. Pheromones or some other science-y, biological shit. There must be an explanation for the way she’s bewitched him like this.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, almost slurring the words against the hollow of her throat, hands on her breasts, cupping them, feeling their increased weight. “You’re so fuckin’ hot like this, Laurel.”

She sighs. “No ‘m not. I hate it.”

“You’re gonna get so big,” he rasps, and lowers his head to kiss at her breasts, rabid. “These. And this. All ‘a you. ‘Cause of me.” His hand drops down to her stomach, cradling the barely-there swell with his hand. Imagining it bigger. Imagining _all_ of her bigger and fuller and heavier with his child, and not entirely understanding why it stirs him so. “You’re gonna be so beautiful.”

She flattens her lips into a line, lamenting, “I’m gonna be a whale.”

“You’re _gonna_ be hot as hell,” he asserts, so emphatically she raises her eyebrows. “Already are.”

Without warning Laurel has made her way sideways on top of him, snapping back to herself and gathering up her wits. He lets her without question, and she kisses him for a moment, softly, before breaking away.

“You like how I look, like this?” she breathes across his lips, eyes dancing, a playful air settling over her. “It turns you on?”

“ _Hell_ yes,” he grunts, and when his cock brushes the soft inside of her thigh he suddenly remembers how hard he is, how badly he’s aching for her. “So much you don’t even know.”

“Good,” is all she says, and pulls him under again. “’Cause we’re not done yet.”

He wants to ask what she means but it’s pretty crystal clear with this new position, so he keeps his mouth shut, swallowing dryly as she pulls away, straddling him and lining his cock up with her and sinking down slowly to take him, welcoming him past the gates of her paradise. Normally Laurel starts gradually when she rides him but she wastes no time now, picking up the pace rapidly, one hand on his chest to anchor her body and the other combing through her hair, tossing the strands back wildly. Her face is scrunched up with a look of intense concentration, lip bitten. So stunning his heart almost gives out right then and there and kills him.

He should’ve known this would be what she’d want – to ride him, like a stallion. And he is her stallion. And he’ll let her. Of course he will.

All Frank can do is watch from below, give himself to her like she’d wanted, and he does. He watches her, mesmerized, mouth watering, his hands on her hips, staring again at her bouncing breasts and belly because he can’t seem to keep his eyes off them, off all that enticing plumpness, everything his seed has done to her. She looks like some kind of fucking ripening fertility goddess, and his body’s response to her feels innate now, so much more powerful; biological, because she’s the mother of his child, his baby mama and goddammit if that isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life. If _she_ isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

She’s glowing, too; all over, from head to toe. Her skin is smooth and shining and golden, her gaze beaming, eyes bright as stars, and he knows she hates it when people say that kind of cliché shit to her but she fucking _is_. Glowing like she’s producing her own light somehow.

Glowing, and growing a little light inside her that shines through her skin, radiant as a sun.

It’s only after Frank slips out of his trance that he realizes how hard she’s riding him; fast and desperate and rough, delving down with so much force the mattress squeaks, so hard it rattles him. Clearly she wants to come again, _needs_ to, but he can’t help the surge of worry that passes through him, his sudden, instinctive concern for the unseen third party in this scenario.

“Hey,” he grinds out, biting back a moan. “Hey… Laurel, cool it, slow dow-”

“Why?” she bites back, and he blinks, groaning before he can help it.

“We don’t-” He cuts himself off, gulping. “We don’t… want the kid sloshin’ around in there, or-”

“It’s _fine_. We can’t hurt the baby.”

“You… you sure?” He feels a surge pass through him, feeling her walls tighten and undulate divinely around his cock, draw him deeper. He clenches his jaw again, trying to center himself, trying not to watch himself vanish inside her again and again and failing miserably. “Don’t… want him comin’ out with a – _Jesus_ – with a black eye or nothin’. What if-”

 _Slap_.

Frank blinks, and suddenly there’s a weight over his mouth, pressing down against his lips.

Laurel’s hand. Covering his mouth. Shutting him up by force.

“Shut up,” she hisses, echoing the sentiment aloud. “Stop… stop _talking_.”

Frank does. Not that he’s got much choice in the matter, that is.

She doesn’t want his words tonight; she wants his dick, and that’s a commodity he’s more than willing to supply. Laurel picks up the pace, the obscene sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. She’s close, he can tell, close to coming a third damn time in a row and looking like she could go for five more rounds and _still_ not be satisfied; some sort of succubus, fucking him for sustenance. Eventually she relieves of him his makeshift gag, just as her rhythm falters and breaks, and before he knows it she’s crumbling again, going boneless and crying out to the ceiling, screaming like a song. Getting what she wants. Taking it. Taking _him_.

She’s gone crazy. She looks insane. And she’s riding him like some kind of nymphomaniac, fucking him, truly _taking_ him, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen anything like this, ever.

He can’t decide if he’s turned on or terrified. Maybe kind of both.

“Oh God, ohGodohGod, I’m c… I-” The words get clogged in her throat, too many trying to escape at once. “Oh, oh _fuck_ -”

She’s coming again, then. She comes so fast it’s almost a blur, so fast it’s almost comical, ten times more sensitive and responsive than she’d been before, like her pregnancy has gifted her with a million new nerve endings and touch receptors, awakening parts of her neither of them had even known existed. She comes, and rides him through it, leaning her weight down on his chest on both arms as if struggling to hold herself upright. The feeling of her walls around his cock, clenching and trembling in familiar, greedy spasms, is enough to shove him closer to the edge, so quick it makes his head spin.

He won’t last much longer like this and he knows it. It’s some physiological anomaly that he’s lasted this long at all.

“I’m-” he chokes out, growling. “I’m gon… Laurel-”

“ _No_.”

Frank blinks, and meets her eyes, and there’s fire in hers suddenly; fierce determination. No. She’d told him _no_.

What the fuck does she mean _no_?

He scowls, swallowing every urge inside him, every bone in his body screaming at him to let go, explode inside her, come and come and come until he has nothing left in him but somehow he refrains. “Huh?”

“Don’t,” she pants, her hips still moving swiftly, albeit a little choppily and not as graceful as before. She keens like some spoiled child, selfish and not giving one single fuck about him. “D-don’t. I need it, again. Again.”

More. She wants more. And he has nothing _more_ to give her, nothing at all, he’s given her all the _more_ he has and so he scowls, bewildered, helpless to do anything but watch her ride him with abandon, watch her bring them both closer to the edge. Subjected to her cruelty. Her slave.

“I can’t,” he groans, fingernails digging into her hips. “I – Laurel, fuckin’ _Christ_ …”

“No. N-no, wait. Wait. I need it.” She clenches her jaw, seething atop him. “Don’t you _dare_ come, Frank, I swear-”

 _Hell_.

He’s not sure his dick can handle her. He’s not sure _he_ can handle her.

It’s all a blur, after that, so fast Frank blinks and it’s done. She breaks again, comes, coming all over him and his cock and rocking on top of him, nearly going cross-eyed, awash in sensation as she is. He loses it too, finally, kept on the brink for so long that his orgasm feels more like relief than actual pleasure, and he empties himself into her, exploding hot inside her, no condom, no nothing, no barrier in the way; just all of his bare cock and all of her cunt united. Joined. Like they should be.

Frank knows damn well he’s not going to heaven. He thinks this is probably as close to heaven as he’s ever gonna get, right here, being fucked half to death by Laurel Castillo.

“ _Shit_ ,” he remarks rather eloquently, after Laurel has rolled off of him and nestled herself in at his side. He shakes his head, trying to make his vision stop spinning. “Fuck me swingin’.”

Laurel wipes her mouth off, letting out a shaky breath. “Sorry. I don’t… I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t apologize.” He rolls over onto his side to face her, voice steadier now. “You, uh… feel better now? Met your orgasm quota?”

“Yeah.” She laughs, freely, deep in her chest. “Yeah, I think I did. I just… _wow_.”

“Wow is right,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “If I’d known the sex was gonna be like that I’dve knocked you up a _long_ time ago.”

She scoffs, but it morphs into another carefree laugh, like he hasn’t heard her laugh in ages. “Yeah, well… maybe I can get used to this whole being pregnant thing if it comes with perks like that.”

“This bargain don’t gotta end here, y’know,” he teases, inching closer to her. “I’m up for a next time. As many next times as you want.”

It’s a lighthearted comment, but something flickers in her eyes. Doubt. Restraint, like she wants him just as bad as he wants her, wants to _be_ with him but doesn’t want to let herself. Laurel sighs, growing solemn all at once. “Frank… you know we-”

“I know we’re tryin’ the just friends thing. Stayin’ away from each other,” he urges, his hand coming to rest on her belly almost of its own volition, his large hand shielding it. “I just mean… I wanna take care of you. Both of you. Whatever you need.” He smirks. “So the next time you’re feelin’ randy as all get out, give me a call. My services come highly recommended. _And_ free of charge.”

“Mmm. I’ll keep that in mind,” she hums drowsily, giving him a lazy little grin. “Next time.”

And yeah, Frank thinks, as she drifts off, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. Pregnancy _is_ one hell of a strange, beautiful, messy, wild, fucked-up journey.

And he’s more than happy to go along for the ride with her, in whatever capacity she wants.  


	10. Fingerfucking, squirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frank helps Laurel discover a new talent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK at this fic whaaaatt??? It's only been 10 years. Or like 3 months. Or 4.
> 
> This fic is kind of like that one fic that will just go on indefinitly as long as I have ideas for it, so. This thing will always be here, and sometimes I get inspo. And lucky for y'all, I did recently. So here we go!!!

It’s the Sunday before finals week.

Laurel is just about at her wit’s end; probably ten exits past her wit’s end, at this point. Laurel has been studying for _at least_ five consecutive hours, colonizing his bed with a mess of scattered papers and textbooks and outlines and going into that strange robot-mode she often does around exams, where she’s too focused to remember how to retain any normal human functions – beyond breathing, though sometimes Frank is worried she’ll forget that one too. Laurel, as far as Frank can tell, hasn’t blinked in at least half that time. Or eaten a bite of food. Or had anything to drink. Or, you know. Taken a break and remembered that she’s a person.

Normally he wouldn’t dare interrupt her in this state –  he’d prefer to keep his head right where it is on his shoulders, thank you very much – but as they enter hour six of her study marathon, he actually, genuinely starts to worry. And that’s what finally prompts him to step into the bedroom and intervene.

“Hey.”

She doesn’t so much as look up; he doesn’t think she even hears him. From his vantage point in the doorway he can see her eyes fixed blankly on the textbook cracked open in her lap, her hair swept away from her face in a messy ponytail. There’s an empty mug of coffee on the nightstand, a few energy bar wrappers next to that. She’s in the same pair of baggy grey sweatpants she’s been wearing for at least two days straight, and a tight red tank top that dips _just_ low enough to draw Frank’s eye. He doesn’t think she’s wearing a bra, as a matter of fact. If he looked close enough-

No. Stop. He’s here to check on her. Feed her. Pour some water down her throat to keep her from shriveling up and dying right there on his bed. Not _ogle_ her.

“Laurel?” he says, again, and still he gets no reaction. Finally, he clears his throat and approaches, coming to a stop beside the bed and sinking down onto the mattress beside her. He sets aside the bottle of water and bowl of pasta he’d brought her. “Earth to Laurel. Come in Laurel.”

That finally gets her to stir, and she comes back to herself with a start, glancing over at him. Her eyes look bloodshot, almost painfully so, and she seems to realize that the same instant he does because she raises her hands to her face to rub at them, wincing.

“Hey,” she greets, voice raspy. “God, what time is it?”

“Five,” he answers, and her eyes shoot open in horror.

“AM or PM?”

“PM,” he chuckles. “If it was AM I think you’d be in a psych ward.”

She gives a soft groan. “I did it again didn’t I?”

“The thing where you turn into a weird, dead-eyed law-robot-zombie?” Frank smirks. “Yeah. ‘S why I was comin’ to check on you. Brought you food.”

Laurel grins, and although it’s an exhausted, weary little grin, it’s a grin all the same. “Thanks. But I’m not hungry. I had a bunch of energy bars earlier.”

“Water, then,” he says, refusing to back down, and finally Laurel relents, taking the bottle when he holds it out to her, unscrewing the cap, and chugging it down in what must be record time, so fast minute little water droplets spill past her lips and dribble down her chin. When she’s finished she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and Frank furrows his brow in surprise.

“Easy there, killer,” he teases, setting the bottle aside. “There’s more where that came from.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, glancing sideways at him with a subdued but sincere little smile. “Sometimes… I think I literally forget I’m a human, like this.”

Laurel lets out a huffing breath and lets herself fall backwards, landing on the pillows and stretching her legs out. Frank settles himself down at her side, angling himself towards her with a grin and letting his eyes drink her in: from the puffy redness of her eyes, to the stray hairs that’ve escaped the grasp of her hair tie, the dark bags hanging under her eyes that only seem to continue to grow, like puddles collecting rainwater. She looks exhausted. Disheveled. But beautiful.

Beautiful isn’t some transitory state, for her. Not something she ever stops being. It’s something she just _is_.

“I never forget,” he undertones, gently, and leans in to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. “You should take a break. You need to rest.”

Laurel stares up at the ceiling with a yawn. “Can’t. I have Property tomorrow, then Civpro, then-”

“You need,” he repeats, stressing each syllable more firmly this time. His lips migrate to her neck, peppering lazy, soft kisses there and up higher, along her jawline, “to rest. Lemme help you relax. C’mon.” He grins against her skin, and he thinks he can feel her shiver. “Don’t wanna have a robot-zombie for a girlfriend.”

Laurel scoffs, but visibly relaxes beneath his mouth, the tension in her shoulders sloughing off of her. The smile on her face widens, taking root in her eyes, making them dance and shimmer in the late evening sun.

“What? You wouldn’t still like me if I wanted to eat your brains?”

“I’d let you eat my brains any day of the week,” he murmurs, before closing his lips over hers. “Though I don’t think there’s anything up there worth munchin’ on anyway.”

She starts to laugh, but he swallows the sound up before she can, capturing her mouth with his and holding on fast. It’s a deep kiss, full of heat and need on his end and much less so on hers; her kisses are more languid, sloppier. Lazier. Frank doesn’t mind; he can see how tired she is, how she’s worn herself down these last few dreaded days leading up to Hell Week – as she’s come to affectionately term it, but he doesn’t need her kisses to be any certain way. Doesn’t need her to be any certain way.

He just really needs _her_. And any bit of her he can get this week he’s beyond grateful for.

It isn’t long before he feels the first few familiar stirrings of desire low in his stomach, his cock. It _also_ isn’t long before he lets his hand slip down, lower and lower, up underneath the hem of her shirt, then dipping into her sweatpants – and it’s only then that Laurel pulls back, batting him away with a laugh.

“ _Stop_ ,” she scolds. “I’m not taking that long a break.”

He grins cheekily. “Who says it’s gotta be long?”

Hand again. Moving closer. Zeroing in like a heat-seeking missile. This time, Laurel puts up markedly less resistance. “Frank-”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he purrs, nipping at her earlobe, voice like honey, flowing smooth and easy. “Just lay back. Enjoy the ride.”

His fingers worm their way inside her pants, again, and for a fraction of a second it seems like Laurel is trying to clamp her thighs together, deny him entry – but the still-human, non-zombified part of her brain must be fast regaining control because she gives up that fight quickly, letting her legs fall back open and releasing a breath as his fingers wiggle deftly between them.

“Frank-”

It’s a protest, albeit the most half-assed one Frank has ever heard; it sounds more like a plea for him to continue than anything else. Laurel’s eyes are slipping shut, head lolling to one side. He can feel her body going loose and pliable beneath his touch, as his hands move over her, sculpt and mold her like clay, and when he reaches the mound between her legs and cups it he can feel the heat fast gathering there beneath his fingertips, in the pulsing of her clit, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She isn’t wet, not at all, though she’s quickly getting there, and Frank glances up, giving her a knowing look.

“Well, well, well,” he murmurs, “and here I thought Constitutional Law got you all hot and bothered.”

“Mmm,” she hums, turning her face toward him and curling into his touch. “Unfortunately… I don’t exactly get wet reading about the separation of powers.”

“Why not?” he prods, smirking. She sucks in a breath when his fingers finally make contact with the swelling bud of her clit and start to work it back and forth, then move away and stroke idly up and down her folds; petting her, almost. “Hamilton and Jefferson and all those old crusty Founding Fathers not turn you on?”

That earns him a soft laugh, which quickly morphs into a whimper. “Let’s just say they’re not my type. And if _this_ is your idea of dirty talk,” she pauses, peering over at him through heavily lidded eyes, “you won’t be either.”

There’s a challenge glittering in her eyes, in the coquettish little grin that tugs at her lips. Frank accepts it.

Of course he does.

It’s a matter of seconds before he has her sweatpants tugged down and off, taking care to brush her papers to the side without disturbing their order. He’s pretty sure Laurel intends to protest, but she seems more invested in his mouth and fingers than she does her outlines at this point in time, and he absorbs her soft giggles gleefully with his mouth, kissing the sounds like music, drawing them into his lungs and holding them there. Eventually he returns to her side, taking a moment to admire the sight of her: braless in her tank top, nipples hardening visibly beneath the fabric, like pebbles; bottomless and unashamed. He drinks in the sight of her long, pale legs, the valley between her thighs; that smooth, shaved mound and the perfect pink flower of her cunt blooming there, glistening as if coated with early-morning dew.

She’s looking back, gnawing on her lower lip. Legs spread. Inviting him – and he’s more than happy to accept the invitation.

He’s upon her before either of them have time to tarry, waste in contemplation. Frank doesn’t need to contemplate shit; Laurel is here, and she wants him, and she needs to relax so desperately, and he's not smart enough to help her study, but he is good for this, at least. Her muscles are loosening somewhat, but they’re still strung tight as bowstrings beneath her skin, her lower lip cracked from worrying her teeth across it. He reaches back down between her legs, dipping his fingers into her simmering cunt and massaging a stripe of wetness up to her clit for lubrication – and she’d been dry before, but now she’s anything but, that pearly wetness flowing out of her in abundance, so much he thinks he could drink her down. Live off her and her alone for the rest of his life.

He caresses her outer lips, relishing in their smooth, slippery softness. His face is buried in her throat, laying kisses on her neck, and he can’t see her face but he can tell by the speed of her breathing and the soft, mewling sounds she’s making that she’s well and truly lost. He glances over, briefly, and catches sight of her hardened nipple beneath the thin fabric, so thin she might as well not be wearing anything at all. Begging to be touched. He abandons her clit, for a while, and turns his attention to her breasts, peeling up her top and baring them to him, those small, rolling mounds peaked with rosebud nipples.

He sucks at them. Gives them long, wet kisses. Strokes them. Teases them until he can tell they’re starting to ache and Laurel is starting to whine half in pain under his ministrations, and only then does he stop, drawing back with a feral grin on his face.

“I goin’ fast enough for you?”

Laurel gives an indignant little whimper, her eyes squeezed shut, her body twitching and quivering, hips rocking. She’s glowing cherry-red from head to toe; her neck, chest, even her arms, and gleaming faintly with a sheen of sweat. She’s gone limp, boneless. Her breathing is coming in frantic pulls. He’s worn all the tightly-wrought tension out of her like unwinding a spool of wire, and she’s never looked so delectable; so delicious and full to the brim with need. It’s spilling out of her pores, all over the bed, palpable in the air. He has one hand on her cunt, patting and rubbing it idly; not making any real effort to get her off but doing more than enough to keep her stimulated. He can smell her, too, that delicious musk hanging in the air like humidity.

“Keep… keep going,” she chokes out, panting the words. She gives him an absurd little smile, which she quickly covers with her hand – and he doesn’t know why, and he wishes she wouldn’t. He loves seeing that smile. “If I’m gonna fuck up my finals I better get compensated with… lots of orgasms.”

“You’re not gonna fuck up anything,” he murmurs in her ear, as he inches one of his fingers into her, spreading her lips slightly, testing the waters. “But I can still deliver on lots of orgasm compensation.”

Laurel opens her mouth to say something, most likely some sarcastic quip – but before she can, all at once, he moves in.

His assault is almost violent, but methodic, entirely planned. He pistons two fingers forward in one sudden, rough thrust, feeling the delicate muscles at her entrance twitch and flutter in response, tightening, as if to trap him there. Her mouth drops open and a moan comes spilling out; high-pitched, airy, that enticing, lilting _ah_ he’s become so familiar with. Her hips move almost of their own accord, rocking, bucking, trying to take more of his fingers. More of him.

She doesn’t have to beg for more. He knows what she wants without her asking, and he gives it to her.

He presses deeper, and this time he hooks his fingers in a firm come-hither motion, pressing down inside her, and it’s lazy at first but slowly, bit by bit, his pace becomes almost punishing. Merciless. Her walls suction around his fingers with every move he makes; she’s so drenched he can almost fucking _hear_ them. It isn’t long before she’s lost, eyelids fluttering shut, gyrating her hips, her hand reaching back behind her head to grasp the pillow, desperate for something to cling to. Her tank top is still peeled up, her breasts still bare, and he thinks about easing up but something, some wild animal impulse, stops him.

He wants her to come. _Really_ come. Come until she can’t breathe, until the waves suck her under, drown her. Until she forgets her worries. Forgets her own damn _name._

He wants her to do more than come. He wants it to destroy her.

Not in a bad way. In the _best_ way. He wants to break apart her mind, fragment it in the most blissful way possible, and so he speeds up, thrusting deeper, pushing down relentlessly inside her with the pads of his fingers – and it’s nothing remarkable, at first. Like it is any other time he fucks her with his fingers.

Then she starts making noises. Noises he’s never heard before.

Low, guttural and groaning, ripped from somewhere deep in her chest. They almost have a note of warning in them, a hint of peril, though he can’t comprehend why, or what, exactly, that means. Her body curves up to meet him, muscles crunching, buckling helplessly; a slave to its own libidinous instincts, to his fingers. It catches him off guard, those new noises. He’s quite familiar with the noises Laurel makes during sex, knows them like the melody of his favorite song, and they’ve never been anything like this; so deep, shuddering on the way out, rocking through her nerves and muscles and tendons in waves. He almost thinks he might be hurting her – but she looks so blissed out he knows that can’t be the case.

So he continues. Hard. Harder.

She’s blubbering, now. Speaking in tongues and hiccupping and half-sobbing. She’s shivering almost like she’s freezing cold, and yet the sheen of sweat beading on her body is telling a different story, as is the way she smolders, burning against him like a flame, her cunt molten. He keeps going. He doesn’t let up; he’s committed to this course of action, and Laurel is groaning unashamedly now. Giving herself over to this. Surrendering.

Fuck. _Fuck_ , these _sounds_. He’s never heard anything like them. Normally her cries are an erotic aria but this more of a thundering, chaotic, discordant orchestra, crashing toward climax. He thinks that might be even hotter.

“Something’s-” she chokes out abruptly, then groans and shudders, and it hits her so hard he can almost feel the vibration in his bones. Her whole body seems to seize up, squeeze tighter, squeeze itself and contract. Her hips are bucking with abandon, now. She’s writhing on the bed, like she’s simultaneously trying to wriggle down onto his fingers and retreat. Another deep moan; a moan of warning, sounds like, like something is coming – and he doesn’t know what. Has no fucking clue. “S-something’s… I feel… oh _God_ , don’t stop… something’s-”

“Let it come,” he purrs in her ear, as he doubles the pressure of his fingers, pressing down mercilessly inside her, coaxing the pleasure out of her in static jolts. “C’mon, lemme help you relax.”

“Frank,” the word comes out, strained by a groan. The sound is feral. Cautionary, again. Warning him, warning him of something, but she can’t articulate the words, “F-Frank, oh, fuck, it’s… I feel like… I’m gonna… I-”

She breaks, right then. Comes. But Frank almost doesn’t think _coming_ is strong enough of a word.

Because she doesn’t just come. She _gushes_. Breaks like a dam. Erupts like a geyser. Soaks his hand, the sheets beneath them, and it’s such a hot, sudden burst he blinks and it’s over, and when he looks down all the evidence he can see of it are the droplets of fluid coating his hand, seeping into the sheets. Her entire body tenses and freezes, and the moan she gives, _God_ , it isn’t anything human, and it isn’t anything he’s ever heard from her before. She looks almost possessed, her eyes rolling into the back of her head, coming so hard she goes cross-eyed, so hard it blinds her. Her face twists up, features contorted into something utterly unrecognizable.

Fuck.

Holy _fuck._

So. That just happened.

All Frank can do is stare, dumbly, as Laurel shakes to pieces then recovers swiftly in the aftermath, shaking, quivering madly but somehow managing to prop herself up on one elbow, survey the scene between her legs, watch as he turns his soaked hand around, astonished. As soon as she does she flushes even redder, her eyes watering, and she makes a sound like a sniffle, clasping her hand over her mouth in horror.

“Oh my-” she chokes out, humiliated. “Oh my _God_ , what…”

“Fuck,” is all he can manage, oh-so-eloquently. “Holy shit.”

“D-did I just-” she sputters, eyes growing increasingly glassy. She’s shaking, now, with the beginnings of a sob. “What’d I-”

She stops, suddenly, and he doesn’t know how to finish that for her. Well – technically, yes, he does. The words are indeed in his vocabulary, but he can’t string them together into any semblance of a coherent sentence, and all he can feel is his drenched hand, the damp sheets, and Laurel’s spread legs in the midst of it. It feels surreal, almost.

Fuck. Holy fucking _shit_.

“You, uh,” he manages an awkward chuckle, cocking his head to one side, “you never told me you could do that.”

“Oh my God,” she blurts out, again. Her eyes are wide with horror, cheeks burning with shame. “Oh my God, oh my God, I just… _everywhere_.”

The logical assumption would be that she’s just pissed herself – but they both know what that was, and it wasn’t that. No.

No, far from _that_.

Frank blinks. “Wow.”

Laurel flings herself upright then, closing her legs and curling in on herself like a turtle retreating into its shell, and it’s only then that he sees how embarrassed she looks, how humiliated she is of her body, of what she’s done, how disgusting he must think she is – and he’s stunned, sure. Stunned as fuck. But not disgusted.

Not at all. How could he ever be disgusted by her.

“I’m so… I-I’m so sorry, I-” she hastens to apologize, shaking her head.

He melts, the instant he sees that. “Hey… Hey, it’s okay, Laurel-”

“It’s _not_ okay!” she exclaims, emphatic. “That’s never… happened before, I didn’t even know I could _do_ that, I-”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he soothes, and reaches over, brushing his hand across her cheek. “Look at me. You got any idea how hot that was?”

Laurel blinks, surprised, but that gives way to a look of disbelief quickly. She sniffles, lowering her eyes. “You don’t… you don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better.”

“I’m not lyin’.”

She seems to realize he’s serious. “I – really?”

“’Course not. That was crazy. Crazy _hot_.”

“No, it’s not,” she says with a frown. “That was… I don’t even know what that was. I mean – I do, but.” Finally she manages to catch her breath, and shakes her head, wiping her eyes, sniffing. “Fuck.”

“It _was_ ,” he urges, angling himself toward her even though she’s trying to angle herself away, curl up into a ball and make herself disappear. “You kiddin’ me? That was the hottest thing I’ve ever _seen_.”

Laurel doesn’t answer, for a moment. Then, finally, she drags her eyes up to meet his, looking small and timid, but curious. Relieved. “Yeah?”

“ _Fuck_ yeah,” he laughs, and finally succeeds in getting her to lie back down, relax somewhat. His lips go for her neck, then lower, to her breasts and stomach, and he kisses the ticklish skin there until he coaxes a few soft laughs out of her. “If you could see what you looked like, like you were… I dunno how to describe it. All I know is that it was fucking hot.” Laurel snorts at his eloquence, and he grins. “I like knowin’ I did that to you. Made you come like that. Feel so good…” He pauses, raising his eyebrows. “Like Moses partin’ the Red Sea.”

Laurel covers her smile with one hand; again, that reflex that he hates, concealing her happiness like she doesn’t believe she should be allowed to show it. This time Frank reaches up and gently moves her hand away, revealing the giddy, toothy smile beneath, admiring the way it lights up her eyes, dances in the blues of her irises like the sun glimmering on the sea.

“C’mon,” Frank implores her, kissing his way back up her stomach. “Lemme see that smile.”

“Oh my God,” she chortles, shaking her head. “I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t.”

Laurel pauses, considers that. Then, eventually lets out a breath, and smiles again. “Fine. I don’t.”

The papers and textbooks and outlines on her bed have been all but forgotten, even though they’re in a state of hopeless disarray now, but Laurel doesn’t seem to care. She tugs down her tank top and locates her sweatpants, and once she’s dressed she falls back down at his side with a content little huff, gnawing on her lower lip as she stares at him, biting on her grin.

“You really thought that was hot?” she asks, after a moment or two or three of silence. “You’re not joking?”

“’Course not,” he chuckles. “I’m serious. That was fucking hot. Seems like I learn somethin’ new about you every day.”

“That’s never happened before,” she confesses, but there’s none of that shyness or shame on her face, now – no, not even close. There’s still hesitance, sure. But no shame. “It felt so… God. _God_.”

“That’s one hell of a talent, y’know,” he teases. “Put that shit on a resume.”

She tenses, slightly. “It’s not a party trick. It’s embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he all but begs, lips pressed to her shoulder. “Hey. Don’t. If you coulda seen the look on your face, hear what you sounded like… it’s gorgeous. _You’re_ gorgeous.”

She rolls her eyes, tries to glower, but just ends up melting. “Stop.”

“I’m not gonna stop,” he says, grinning like a fool. “No way no how. I wanna watch you do that, again, and again… Soak my hand. Soak the sheets, ‘cause it feels so good…”

“Mmm.” Laurel flushes, leaning in, brushing her nose against his. “Speaking of… you’re gonna have to change these. Sorry.”

Frank shrugs, thoroughly unconcerned. “No biggie. If you gotta put a towel down from now on… I can handle it. I’m not scared of gettin’ wet. ‘Sides,” he winks at her. “Who doesn’t love a little sprinkler action?”

That earns him a smack on the arm. “You’re the _worst_.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, cheesy smile fixed on his features, “but you’re the best.”

“You’re talented too,” she remarks, reaching down and lacing her fingers through his, playing with them idly. “Good with your hands. Big fingers. Put that on a resume.”

“What do ya know? I’m a regular Frank Dildohands.”

Laurel collapses into a fit of laughter, at that. She doesn’t cover her smile, this time, and it makes him so irrationally, ridiculously happy that it feels like his chest cavity has been pumped full of helium, his body so light he might float away at any second. Before long he’s laughing along with her, and it’s a while before they sober up, their peals of laughter filling the room, insulating them from the outside world. He reaches over once they have, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear with all the affection and tenderness in the world, so much he can feel it seeping out of him.

He loves her. He loves her so much that there’s no amount of words in any language on earth to tell her, to convey everything he’s feeling in any sort of meaningful way. It’s too much to be contained in mere words and syllables and sentences alone.

But she knows. She’s looking over at him, smiling bright and big and beautiful, lighting up the universe. And Frank knows she knows.

“That should be a thing,” she says, finally. “Making slutty resumes. Experience… special skills…”

Frank raises an eyebrow. “You thinking about shoppin’ around for a new boyfriend now?”

“Oh, never,” she murmurs, wriggling her eyebrows and feigning shock. “What kinda girl would ever wanna leave someone who calls himself Frank Dildohands?”

Frank barks a laugh; he has to give her that one. He leans in for a kiss, and she reciprocates for a while before drawing back and sighing, appraising him in silence for a while as if considering something.

“I should study,” she grumbles, half-heartedly, and glances down at the scattered papers and sticky notes and outlines. “And… reorganize all of this.”

“Ten more minutes,” he pleads. “C’mon. One more round. Then you can go back to zombie-robot Laurel and I’ll leave you alone.”

Laurel fixes him with a stern look, then smiles, relenting. “Fine. I _might_ be persuaded… but only if Frank Dildohands comes out to play.”

He cringes. “You’re never gonna stop callin’ me that now are you?”

“Uh uh,” she affirms, grinning cheekily and leaning in for another kiss. “Never.”


	11. Breastplay, lactation kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just gotta write some shit that's really out there, man. Why not. What's this? Don't really know. It just kinda happened.
> 
> Dedicated to Lauran who bothered me about writing this until I finally caved. So. I Hope You're Happy.

****

“Oh. _Oh_ , fuck.”

“That feel good?”

“ _God_ yes, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

“Ever?”

“You know what I – _ah_ , right… right there, just like that.”

“As much as I like hearin’ you moan, my hands are cramping, babe.”

“No, don’t – Ugh, seriously?”

Laurel whines, throwing her head back onto the pillow with a huff as Frank lets her foot drop back down onto the comforter, cruelly neglected and decidedly unsatisfied.

“Gimme a break; I been at this for, like, half an hour.” Frank winces, massaging his palms. “Got feet hands too, now.”

She scoffs, and sends him a good-natured eyeroll. “You’re a wimp.”

“ _You’re_ greedy,” he chides, settling down next to her on the bed, where she’s sprawled out in a thin grey tank top and athletic shorts. “I spoiled you when you were pregnant. Created a damn monster.”

“Oh, you better _continue_ to spoil me,” she shoots back. “I went through the agony of pushing an entire small human out of my body. _Your_ small human, might I add.”

“ _Our_ small human,” he corrects, and she rolls her eyes again.

“Our small human,” she echoes, and grins, toothy yet withered in her exhaustion. She shifts on the bed, readjusting herself. “Ugh. Y’know, I feel a little like I’ve just been cockblocked, honestly.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, smiling back at her, blue eyes rippling with mirth. He leans in, pressing a scratchy kiss to her jawline, then trailing up towards her ear. “I’m sincerely sorry I cockblocked you.”

“Well,” she quips, and switches on her best come-fuck-me eyes, “there’s an… easy way to fix that, isn’t there?”

Frank gets the message; he’d have to be daft not to, and before she can get another word in he’s upon her, rolling on top of her and kissing her deeply while she dissolves into a fit of laughter beneath him. It proves contagious, and soon he’s laughing too, the deep bass vibrations of his chuckles rumbling across her skin like tiny earthquakes, pushing up goosebumps across her arms, legs, neck, until she’s positively covered in them, and _him_.

It’s a moment of peace – and they don’t get many moments of peace like this, anymore. Hardly any moments alone at all, with a three-month old who seems to still have the approximate sleeping schedule of a newborn and her classes and his job, all the wedges the world seems intent on driving between them, but they prove them wrong every time, come out on the other side. They’ve come out on the other side of _everything_ loving each other so much more fiercely than they did going in, she thinks as his lips descend to suck at her pulse point, because it hasn’t been easy, their separation before, the pregnancy that’d brought them back together. None of it has been easy, and it never will be, and somehow that barely matters at all, as long as she has him by her side, constant and steady and so goddamn head over heels for her that she’ll never be able to properly understand why, or how. She can’t quantify his love. She doesn’t need to.

All she can do is bask in it.

“I,” he begins, voice raspy, thick with desire. His words scald like steam, hot as a brand on her neck, “solemnly swear to _never_ cockblock you if there’s anything I can do about it.”

“Is there?” she pants, coyly, feeling him twitch and harden in his boxer-briefs against her thigh. She gnaws on her lower lip, taking in the sight of him; bare-chested, hair damp and disheveled from his shower, almost boyish, looking at her like he always does, like he still can’t quite believe she’s real. “Anything you can do about it?”

“Mmm,” he hums, breaking away, tugging her tank top off, and beginning his voyage down south, to the juncture of her thighs. “I can think of a few things.”

She’s not going to lie; it still disquiets her, a little, to be naked in front of him, after the number that pregnancy did on her body, her stomach still not quite flat and her breasts inflated, swollen, stretch marks littering the flesh just above her pelvis and slithering their way across her hips. It’s a body that doesn’t feel like hers anymore; some foreign thing which was used as a vessel, hollowed out and reshaped and mangled beyond recognition, and now no longer belongs to her at all, and it’s taken time – and Frank’s always worshipful attentions – to get her to some new normal, back to feeling comfortable in her own skin. He kisses her stretch marks and calls them battle scars, can’t seem to get enough of her breasts, of _all_ of her, jumped back in bed with her as soon as the doctor told them sex was safe, again. He wants her so badly she can’t help but _feel_ sexy, wanted, even in this creature’s body, ever-changing and evolving like a landscape.

He peels down her shorts, next, eyes dark with hunger, downright ravenous, surveying what’s been revealed to him, his prize, fucking _salivating_. His pupils are blown huge with lust, black holes consuming every last scrap of matter in the blues of his irises, consuming her right along with them. She can’t help but stare back, drowned in the undertow of his desire as it washes over her, as he creeps down the bed like a predator positioning himself to strike, backing up, preparing to launch forward.

Laurel feels naked, almost painfully so, thighs splayed, cunt on display; she doesn’t shave or wax as diligently as she used to, and she knows he couldn’t give less of a fuck, teases her for thinking he would ever care about that when he’s got a goddamn porcupine on his own face that she’s put up with for ages. There’s still nothing but want, in his gaze, blatant, not at all concealed, but it makes her shift even so, because things change, God knows _she’s_ changed, but she still is never quite comfortable being so intently looked at either, the object of his desire, the focal point of his universe. Venerated.

Fuck, but the things that look _does_ to her.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, pausing, almost absentmindedly, like he doesn’t realize he’s even speaking the words aloud. He presses a kiss to the side of her knee, eyes wide with wonder. “I love you.”

She melts, her breath catching, because never once in her life has anyone looked at her the way he does, the way he _continues_ to, that astounded, childlike stare, which never fails to catch her off guard, send her head reeling – even now, even when she’s sure there’s little in life that can surprise her, anymore. She’s not as good at telling him she loves him, or even at showing affection at all, and she knows it, and sometimes it makes her feel horribly guilty, frustrated.

But he wants her without judgement, without expectations. He just wants _her_ , everything she is, riddled with flaws and imperfections, scars both invisible and visible, many of which mirror his own, and they’ve both taken turns breaking each other’s hearts, and by now, really, who’s counting. He just wants her. _Loves_ her, and she gives him a smile that’s almost loopy, dazed yet still very much aware of the throbbing of her clit, the way she’s almost dripping onto the sheets, embarrassingly drenched for how little he’s actually touched her.

Because as much as that look makes her melt, it also turns her the fuck _on_.

“Love you too,” she pants, breasts standing out on her chest when she arches into his touch, nipples hardened into rosebud peaks, pining for his attention. “Now you gonna keep cockblocking me or what?”

“Nah,” he chuckles, and she blinks and there he is, again, on top of her, that familiar, pleasant weight surrounding her. “This is one cock that’s never gonna block you, babe.”

His hands reach up, going for her breasts out of habit, cupping them – and normally she wouldn’t mind his ministrations, but they’re more sensitive than they usually are, tender and aching as she’s tried to wean the baby, engorged. A whimper looses itself from her throat almost immediately, and Frank, attentive as he is, pulls back, brow furrowed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she assures him, though it’s coupled with another, louder wince she doesn’t try to bite back, this time. She reaches up, pressing her palm to her right breast, finding it hard as a knot beneath her fingertips. “Yeah, just… they’re really full.”

The awareness hits her all at once; it’d been pushed to the back of her mind, before, crowded out by pleasure, but it comes flooding back the instant he touches her breasts, flooding like the milk which has them swollen and agonizingly tender, pent-up. She feels like she could fucking _burst_ , because she’s tapering off feeding but her body doesn’t seem to be taking the hint, reducing her supply, and God, she hates this, hates feeling like a damn dairy cow which is not even _remotely_ sexy, in any possible way, shape, or form.

But something flickers in Frank’s eyes, right then, that leads her to believe he might not feel the same.

He doesn’t remark on it, though; he just nods understandingly, gives her a sympathetic look, and asks, “Wanna stop?”

“No,” she hisses, more forcefully than she intends to, and refocuses herself on Frank, all boyish and tousled and hot as hell between her legs, because she’s sure as fuck not going to waste this opportunity fretting. “No, just… somewhere else?”

“’Course. I’m always partial to visiting the deep south.”

“Oh, God,” she chortles, as Frank winks at her, gives a cheeky grin, and descends dutifully once more, settling himself at the end of the bed, “if you call it that ever again, _I’m_ going to be the one cockblocking _you_.”

She doesn’t mean it, and he doesn’t believe her for a second, that much is clear – but for once, Frank has the good sense the shut up, put his mouth to better use. And he _does_.

Laurel has hardly caught her breath before he’s tugging her down by her hips, hard, prying her thighs apart, and settling in at his favorite meal, dropping his jaw so low he’s able to envelop all of her cunt in one fell swoop, devour her in one bite, and he’s so hot, burning, incinerating her. Her cunt is already a furnace and adding his heat to it makes her jerk back, as if trying to move away, inexplicably, involuntarily, when really all she wants is more, more, so much more she can’t pinpoint just what it is she wants more _of_ – more of _everything_ , really. It’s overstimulating, at first, too much, but Frank backs off in short order, moving his lips to her clit, falling back into their rhythm, the old, familiar way he plays her body like a pussy-eating Mozart. He’s a jack of all trades, a master of only one.

And _this_ … This is that one.

She loses herself in it, in the sweeping of his tongue, which alternates from long and languorous strokes from the base of her pussy up to her clit, to quick, flurried movements, like a cat lapping up milk. She keeps one hand on his head, gripping his hair, the other balling up the sheets in her fist as her body rises to meet his mouth, a magnet drawn to its polar opposite – though they’re one in the same, she and him, always have been, always will be. Laurel stifles most of her moans, keeps them to a minimum, gnaws on her lower lip; once, she wouldn’t have had to worry, would’ve screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but the baby is a consideration now, and the last thing she wants is him waking, interrupting this. She casts that from her mind, though, and hones in on Frank instead, propping herself up on her elbows to watch him, mouth gaping wide on her pussy as she grinds it greedily against his face, his beard. She wants to soak him. He’d let her; they both know it. He’d _want_ her to.

But that’s when she sees them; two rogue streams of milk seeping from her breasts, trickling down the sides.

Fucking impeccable timing.

“Shit,” she swears, sitting up and almost kicking him away, searching frantically for something to press against her chest, sop up the flow – because she wants to soak him, yeah, but not like _this_. “Shit, I’m leaking.”

It seems to take Frank a moment to realize what she means, but when he does, he reacts with a remarkable lack of panic, lack of shock. No disgust, either – even though she’s humiliated, flushed fifty different shades of red, her cheeks glowing with bright pink spots and her eyes watering. She’s scrambling to find something, anything, and he’s just sitting there, rolled back onto his knees, useless, appraising her in silence, as if contemplating something.

Laurel notices, and fumes. “Are you just gonna sit there or are you gonna-”

“Lay back,” is all he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes her freeze; something dark. Something with weight. “Let me.”

Laurel almost does a double take. She almost asks him what the hell he means – but he’s looking at her, looking at her leaking breasts with unabashed hunger in his eyes, with intent, and she _knows_ what he means. And it takes a hell of a lot to shock her, anymore, but she’s shocked, now, struck by lightning and stunned into stillness. All she can do is gape back at him.

“Huh?”

“Let me,” Frank repeats, and he doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

For once, she doesn’t know what to say; words escape her altogether. She can’t seem to make herself move from where she is, either, propped up on her elbows, dribbling all over the sheets, making a mess of herself. She should be getting up, getting dressed, probably tracking down her bra and covering herself, yet all she can seem to do is stay frozen right where she is, feeling simultaneously as small as an ant and yet as powerful as a goddess, to have captivated him so.

Laurel doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.

Instead, slowly, very slowly, she lowers herself back down.

It’s half obedience, half shock; it’s all she can make herself do, and fuck, it’s fucking immodest, really; indecent, him wanting this, savoring the sight of her, pearly beads of milk bubbling up at her nipples and sliding off of her – but she supposes decency and any measure of modesty went out the window months ago in the delivery room, and it’s not like they have time for it, anymore. She can’t help but shift, as he grows closer, press her thighs together and squeeze, as if trying to stem the flow of her desire, stem _something_ , at least, when she can’t control the flow from her tits, a slow but inexorable trickle, potent arousal and equally potent shame tangling in her belly. Frank looms over her, a tower of a man, all muscles and sharp angles and jarringly blue eyes; somewhere along the line his boxer briefs disappeared, leaving his cock bare before her, long and wanting and curving up towards his belly.

He’s looking at her like she’s a four-course meal. Like a motherfucking chocolate fountain. She _feels_ like a fountain, like a dam cresting its edges, and she doesn’t have to ask to know this gets him hard, gets him off, seeing her like this. He was fascinated by her pregnant body, almost obsessed with it, dragging her to bed month after month even when she became damn near immobile; this is just another change, to her, evidence of his handiwork, what he’s done to her body, and he’s always been a boob guy, adored her breasts, but this is different. He looks rapt, breathless. Mesmerized.

And he’s giving her that stare he gave her, before, but now it’s different, too. It’s almost unrecognizable. It’s something she’s never seen.

“I got it,” he undertones, and lowers himself gingerly back onto her, reaching up, cupping the underside of her breast, feeling the dampness beneath his fingers, and he actually legitimately _licks his lips_ – and that’s what does her in, makes her sink back into the bedding and gulp. He’s looking to her for assurance, now; an invitation to proceed, that same wonder from before saturating his eyes, and it fills her with tenderness, and she swears it makes her breasts seep even more, affection welling in her chest in more ways than one. “I got you, okay?”

“Oh God,” the words come spilling out of her mouth, and decency is a distant dream, now, and fuck _taboo_ , fuck _wrong_ , fuck _fucked-up_. Fuck everything that isn’t here, that isn’t this. Isn’t _them_. “Please-”

She knows what she’s begging for. She could never say it aloud, can hardly stand to think it, but again, like always, she doesn’t need to. Frank doesn’t go for her nipple at first, though; instead he pays attention to the stubborn rivulets spilling out of her, kisses the underside of her breast and darts his tongue out, licking them away. He’s never tasted her before, though she knows he’s had a curiosity, and he moans against her skin the moment the droplets hit his tongue, a guttural, muffled, desperate sound she can only draw out of him on occasion.

Laurel wonders what she tastes like. Hopes, maybe, suddenly, twistedly, that she’ll taste it on him, after.

“Shit,” is all he breathes, as if barely able to speak, eye level with her breasts, transfixed. “You’re so fucking _full_.”

She _is_ ; so full it hurts, so full she’s aching, full to bursting, tits begging for relief, for his mouth, for anything. She’d ignored it before, pushed the sensation to the back of her mind, yet now she can’t help but feel it, and urgency bleeds into her whimpers as Frank eyes her, letting her leak then leaning in and lapping her up, not about to waste a single drop of her, like the finest wine, the most exquisite honey. Sometimes, like the rest of her body, her tits feel alien to her, too, swollen and enormous and low-hanging; not hers for any cosmetic, vain purpose any longer, existing for another reason entirely, to be pumped, sucked, fed from. It’s demeaning, most of the time. Unpleasant.

But now, with Frank staring at her in wonder, like he’s prostrating himself before the statue of some fertility goddess… she just feels so fucking _powerful_. She feels like a woman divine, the way she can do this to him, reduce him to a wordless, gaping animal, driven by his basest instincts, lust and something far more primal, more biological, coded in the very first lines of his DNA. Fucking pheromones, maybe – she has no clue, but he hasn’t been able to keep his hands off her since the moment he found out she was pregnant.

Not that he really could before, that is.

“Oh – God, fuck, _please_.”

Her cunt is throbbing in time with her heartbeat, now. Her heartbeat feels like it’s about to cave her chest in and kill her, and still Frank hasn’t moved in, latched on; instead, he’s only laving his tongue over the pink, puckered skin of her areola, palming her breasts, feeling their swollenness beneath his palms, teasing her with a knowing look in his eyes that leads her to believe he knows precisely how hot she finds this – and all that niggling shame from before is gone, long forgotten, tossed out the car window fifty exits back on this goddamn freeway of debauchery. She’s overflowing and so fucking _full_ and she feels like a volcano of a woman about to erupt, steam seeping up through her pores, and this shouldn’t be erotic but it is, God it _so_ is.

“God,” she almost growls, when he still hasn’t zeroed in on her nipple, taken pity on her. “You’re such a fucking _tit tease_.”

“Mmm,” he hums, smirking against the side of her breast, near her armpit. “Am I tit blocking you now, then?”

She’s somewhere between sobbing and moaning. It’s undignified. Laurel really, really can’t bring herself to care. “Just – just _do_ it, they’re so… full, I need… I-”

She isn’t expecting him to comply so readily, without making her say it; say what she needs, use her words, and fuck, she doesn’t know if she’s even capable of that, of telling him point-blank to _suck her tits,_ though, admittedly, she’s probably said filthier things in the heat of the moment. But he doesn’t make her, doesn’t say anything at all, himself; before her foggy brain can even process it properly, he’s moving in, without a word, sealing his lips around her right nipple and giving a greedy tug.

It feels like a dam bursting inside her, water rushing forth as her milk rises into his mouth, and it sends her reeling, almost makes her eyes roll back in her head from the sensation, that sharp, warm tingle in her breasts as her let-down reflex kicks in, her body giving in, giving him what he wants, what _she_ wants equally as much. It hurts, at first, little pinpricks of pain like always, but then it’s just complete, unadulterated relief, and she can’t help but moan feverishly, trembling beneath him as she cards her fingers through his hair.

Frank raises his head. Pauses, and his beard is soaked, from her milk and from her cunt before, positively covered in her. He looks almost euphoric, like she’s some aphrodisiac.

She can’t breathe. She suspects he can’t either.

“ _Fuck_ , you taste so good,” he says, and dives back in, and suddenly she can’t breathe at all. Suddenly she swears she doesn’t even have lungs.

He suckles at her hungrily, insistent but tender, with an implicit understanding that she can tell him it’s too much at any time, shove him away – when that’s the last thing Laurel can think of doing, right now, lying back and watching him drain her tits like a man insane while all she can do is watch. And none of this should be erotic but it _is_ , so hot she can’t help but writhe, because he’s drinking from her like she’s a font of holy water, an oasis in the midst of a desert he’s been wandering for weeks, looking at her like she’s his last meal, as needy as a starving child.

_Fuck_. Fuck. _What the fuck_ and _why in the fuck_ and – _fuck_.

Just _fuck._ That about sums it up.

Her whole body throbs in time with each long, tugging pull, and she flows thick and hot and sweet into his mouth, and he’s giving her no indication he intends on stopping until he’s sucked her dry. He can’t seem to get enough, the same way he’s downright insatiable when he eats her pussy; this is only another part of the banquet that is her body for him to consume. He could probably go at this for hours if he could, and this isn’t like nursing, isn’t like anything Laurel has ever felt in her goddamn _life_. She’s sopping wet and squirming, and all she can do is grind against his knee which he’s positioned between her legs, granting her, at least, a meager amount of friction, though it’s so far from enough she could scream.

“Oh God – oh _shit_ -”

She’s incoherent. There’s always something that clouds her mind when she feeds, hormones or pheromones or chemicals or whatever the fuck, something inside her that flows hot through her veins like morphine, soothing her, setting her at ease. Only now that drug is turning her on, too, until she’s sufficiently sleepy and horny, wetter than she’d thought possible, and once he’s finished with her one breast he switches to the other, savoring each long, steady swallow of her with a muffled groan. She can’t get enough of the sight of him, latched onto her nipple so intently, sucking her down as fast as he can; the sounds he makes when she strokes his hair; the way his eyes flick up to look at her now and then, no wickedness or wanton bravado in them, just pure utter desperate _need_.

He’s lost in her body, in her taste, her breasts, all of her. He’s lost in her and she’s lost in him, so far gone, dizzy with pleasure. By the time Frank pulls away she’s whimpering, crying out and breathing so hard the room around her spins, and that agonizing fullness in her breasts is gone, drained away, dribbling past his lips, which he licks away with a hasty sweep of his tongue.

She could take a moment and contemplate what the fuck they’ve just done, where the fuck they’ve just gone. She could let shame come creeping back in like a tide, take her over, shut her down.

She could do a lot of things. In the end, she does only one.

“Fuck me,” she orders, voice scraping her throat, jagged like a stone, and rolls over onto her side, not about to ask politely, because he’s just sucked her tits, really, and politesse has no place here anymore. “Now.”

His thirst may be sated, but there’s another part of him, between his legs, that she knows is far from satisfied at all – and so he obeys, spooning her from behind with a grunt, lining his cock up, guiding it across her soaking labia. He looks wild-eyed, on some kind of high after drinking from her, and the moment he comes into contact with her cunt he moans, low and rough, broken with need.

“Christ,” he manages, somehow, as he teases her folds, rubbing his cock back and forth against her, torturing them both. “That turn you on this much?”

“ _Fuck_ yes,” she breathes, squeezing her eyes shut, gritting her teeth against the urge to moan. “Don’t… don’t get used to it, though. Can only handle one man in my life having his way with my tits.”

He laughs. “Aw c’mon, little guy can’t share?”

“God. Now we’re gonna have to wean you too.”

He’s chuckling when he sinks into her, tangling their limbs together and setting a slow, leisurely pace, and she’s coming before she even realizes it, the initial, blissful stretching of her cunt just enough to tip her over the precipice on which she’d been teetering. She moans into the pillow, a lightshow dancing behind her closed eyelids, and Frank grunts, caught off guard but not breaking his rhythm, not letting up even slightly.

“You were close.” Frank angles her back, slightly, to get her to look at him, though her eyes are still shut, body still convulsing, and she can’t quite pry them open just yet. Can’t do anything other than moan helplessly, pawing at her clit as she rides it out, and Frank notices, shoving her hand away and circling it with his own fingers, grinning. “You like that, huh? Me suckin’ you dry?”

“O-oh… God, you’re such a cocky asshole, I sw-”

He kisses her silent, steals the words for himself and swallows them, and all at once she forgets what she was saying, anyway – because she can taste herself on his tongue; sweet, mild, something almost like a light note of vanilla, too many different layers of flavor to parse properly, all accompanied by the jarring realization that it’s her, _hers_ , as odd as it is when she tastes her pussy on his tongue after he eats her out, but just as oddly satisfying. She gasps into the kiss, body arching towards him, seeking more, more of his cock, more of his taste, the taste of her.

“See how you taste?” he purrs, and she shudders, the last few waves of her climax receding like a tide out into the sea, leaving her weak and shaky in the aftermath. “You taste so damn  _sweet_.”

A grin tugs at her lips. “You like it?”

“Love it,” Frank growls, and rolls her back over, his movements not ceasing, though growing ever more erratic as he drives himself deeper, gripping her hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped fingernail marks behind. “Love you. I love you so much.”

They must look a sight, she thinks; sweaty and messy, downright filthy, her milk on the sheets mixing with sweat and sex, a thick, dense musk in the air. She’s soaked in sweat, chest sticky, hair wild, and Frank is pressing rough kisses to her shoulder that are still infused with hunger, with want; she thinks he’d have another go at her the moment she’s full-up, again, suck her until she’s tapped out, over and over, as many times as she’ll allow. The thought shouldn’t make her shiver like it does. She shouldn’t want that.

She shouldn’t want a lot of things she does. So what’s one more, really.

They stay where they are, after, Frank curving his body around hers from behind, melding to her like clay, like making an impression of her body in plaster cast to preserve this moment forever. Her eyelids are drooping, all but fucked to sleep with an absurd, almost drunk grin on her face. She _feels_ drunk; drunk on him, suspects he’s equally as drunk on her, and her breasts are sensitive, the stiff buds of her nipples sore, raw, but they ache with a distinct sort of satisfaction, a lingering, pervasive warmth.

She feels warm all over, really, sleepy and sated and the closest to heaven that she’s ever come, the edges of her vision taking on a soft, almost dreamlike quality. Laurel hums softly, laces her fingers in with his where they rest fanned out wide on her hipbone, feeling his softening cock against her ass, the heat of his breath on her shoulder, the rock of his body against hers in the silence, steady as a stone.

They don’t have many moments like this, anymore. And she knows better than to waste a single second of this on sleep.

“It’s true what they say, y’know,” he murmurs against her skin. She can hear the smirk in his voice. “Breast really is best.”

She elbows him lightly, chortling. “You’re an ass.”

Frank urges her to turn back towards him, and she complies, fixing him with a mock-serious look, which he kisses away at once. “An ass who loves you.”

“Yeah, well,” Laurel quips, sinking into his kiss, yielding with a smile. “Your ass better.”


	12. 4x04 car sex, light daddy kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because lbr.... this scene needed to be filled in and what we got was simply not sufficient. And then also why not add a side of daddy kink just for shits and giggles.

“It’s just sex. Shut up and take it.”

Wait. Hold the phone. Record scratch. Freeze frame.

You’re probably wondering how he ended up in this situation. If Frank’s being honest, so is he.

One second Laurel is sitting in the passenger side of his car, having a strangely normal conversation with him about normal, boring things, like he figures normal, boring people probably do – and the next she’s clambering sideways into his lap with fire in her eyes, reclining the seat so that he goes sinking backwards, and straddling him, covering his mouth with her hand to muffle his protests.

And then she starts _grinding_ on him, with this dirty rotten downright sinful look on her face. And Frank isn’t really seeing paradise by the dashboard light or anything. Mostly, he’s just confused as fuck.

“Hey,” he manages to choke out, after prying her hand off his mouth and momentarily putting on the brakes. “Hey, slow down Laurel, wha-”

“Can’t,” she breathes, and she sounds frantic, so _desperate_ , like there’s a countdown timer ticking down the seconds and if she doesn’t get off before it hits zero she’s going to drop dead.

Her hands are at his belt, then, fumbling with it hastily, a damn archaeologist trying to excavate his dick as fast as humanly possible. He can’t deny it; he’s hard just from feeling her grind on him, but the arousal is tempered slightly by his general sense of bewilderment – because yeah, he always wants her, he’s never _stopped_ wanting her, but this. This turn of events he doesn’t quite know how to process.

“What’s goin’ on with you?” Frank raises his voice, finally, and it seems to halt her in her tracks again, give them a moment of pause.

It’s difficult to see her in the semi dark, their bodies cloaked by shadows until the boundaries between them grow fuzzy and indistinct. She’s half-gilded beneath the dim streetlights, eyes so ink-black it’s like her pupils have swallowed up her irises entirely, her mouth agape, lip bitten. She’s so _hot_ , too, burning like a flame against him, incinerating him right with her, all hands and mouth and sloppy teenage desperation and – fuck, what the hell’s gotten into her?

“Hormones,” is his answer to that, apparently, like it explains everything, and, well, he guesses it kind of _does_. Laurel hikes her dress up around her hips a bit clumsily, her stomach a gentle curve in the space between them, not enough to hinder her but not unnoticeable either. “I can’t sleep. Everything just… turns me on. I’m gonna go crazy.”

Baby hormones. He’d heard of this being a side effect of baby hormones. Apparently, she’s decided to make him her outlet for relief.

This day just keeps getting progressively weirder. Really, his whole life is.

She’s so close, looming over him, holding him down, heavier than he remembers. He hasn’t been this close to her in so long and it’s overloading his circuitry, rendering him deaf and dumb and mute – not that he was ever especially good with words, but now, now he can’t even _speak_. For a moment, all he can do is remain there, still as a stone, her mouth attacking his and her hands roaming his body like he’s a kingdom she means to conquer, and he can smell the light floral scent of her shampoo, those subtle notes of spice underneath, the warmth of her skin, all coming together to form something so uniquely, indescribably _Laurel_. He wants her. Wants more. Wants all of her. She’s literally fucking _glowing_ – how could he not?

But not like this. Not fumbling their way towards a quick, shameful come in the darkness. Not something so unceremonious and unromantic. Not like they were before; the porch, the car.

The _car_. He almost barks a laugh at the memory. History repeats itself, apparently.

“Hey,” he says, again, loud enough that it startles her into stillness for a third time. “Stop, Laurel, I don’t want us to be just… this, again, I-”

He cuts himself off, voice sticking in his throat like a ball of glue; he doesn’t know how to articulate what he’s feeling, the sentiment he wants to express. Finally, Laurel draws back, and for a split second she looks almost crestfallen, chest heaving, cheeks glowing red as cherries as the heater puffs away through the vents. There’s a flash of something like anger in her eyes at his rejection, too; it seems she’d assumed that he’d be grateful for whatever she would deign to give him, that she’d have him eating out of the fucking palm of her hand like a dog, at her beck and call.

Which – yeah, okay, he totally is. But that’s beside the point.

All at once, however, she changes tactics. The fire in her eyes dims, and it’s hard to see her in the darkness but he can see those eyes widen in supplication, placid pools of blue, her posture relaxing, shoulders slumping, almost defeated. When she speaks, she utters only one word – but that word is all she needs.

“Please.”

She knows how to get him, knows he won’t be able to say no if she begs – because Laurel has never been one to beg, and when she does it’s generally her last resort, her final method of persuasion when she’s used up all the other weapons in her arsenal. And fuck, all at once he’s putty in her hands, he’s a beggar at her feet kissing her boot and begging for an ankle, all simmering blood and heat and approximately zero willpower. He’s never had willpower when it comes to Laurel Castillo anyway; he doesn’t know why he’d thought he could fight her, especially now, when she’s all caped by the night like a temptress, sinking her claws in and dragging him to a doom that doesn’t feel much like doom at all.

And she doesn’t stop there. He blinks, and she’s leaning in, pressing her lips against his neck and scraping her teeth lightly across his Adam’s apple, and _whimpering_ , giving this broken, needy sound that almost makes him cream his pants right then and there.

“Please,” she whines, melting against him. “Please, daddy.”

His head is spinning, cock throbbing. That word – _God_ , the things it does to him, the things _she_ does to him. This is unfair on about as many levels as it is twisted and yet he can hardly bring himself to care at all, and the moan that goes rumbling out of his throat sounds almost inhuman, positively feral.

_Daddy_. Fucking hell, she knows precisely what she’s doing, turning the tables on him, using this dynamic to her advantage like an ace up her sleeve. He doesn’t think he can handle it; simply touching her again is going to drive him crazy. If she keeps this up, he might go fucking straightjacket, padded-cell insane.

“I need it,” Laurel pants, voice light, airy, that high-pitched girlish register she always uses for this, but it’s insistent, petulant. She’s spoiled rotten. All he wants to do is spoil her more. “You _said_ … whatever I need.”

Well. He can’t argue with that one.

“Laurel…”

“Take care of me,” she breathes in his ear, scalding his flesh like steam as she grinds down against him, desperate for friction, for touch, for something, “ _daddy_.”

She’s here. Begging him. Begging him to take care of her. That what he _does_ : takes care of her. Everything is different, now, and chaos has altered the world around them, and yet that fundamental fact of life has never changed.

He takes care of her. He’s her daddy. He _belongs_ to her.

“You-” Something like a crazed chuckle cuts him off. He’s sure now he must be in the midst of a fever dream; no way in fucking hell any of this is real. He feels insane. “Fuck, princess…”

_Princess_. That pet name he reserves only for this. It sends a full-bodied shudder ricocheting through Laurel, and she moans softly against his neck where she still hasn’t ceased her onslaught of kisses, sucking on his skin like she’s trying to drain the juice from a ripe peach. Maybe she wants to mark him so Bonnie will see, so everyone will see, and _know_ , and as infinitely terrible an idea as that is, he can’t deny he wants that too.

He’d used to hold her down and make her beg, tell him she was his before he’d fuck her, _God, daddy please, I’m yours, I’m yours_ – but when it comes down to it, in the end, he’s hers more than anything, always has been, always will be. This is a two-way street, and when her hands register at his groin once more Frank doesn’t resist, or protest, because fuck it, fuck willpower, he’s her daddy and she needs him now, needs him to _take care_ of her, and if his dick is the only part of him she wants, well-

He’ll take what he can get.

She has his fly unzipped and his cock out in what must be Guinness World Record Book timing, but before she can lower herself onto him he reaches out, cupping her between her legs, over her sopping panties, that gentle mound, his prize. The lace is soaked, her juices leaking through the material, smeared onto the insides of her thighs, coating his fingers, and he can’t hold back his groan at the feeling; he’s never felt her so wet before in his life, dripping down onto him though he’s barely touched her at all, cunt sloppy and burning, fucking obscene.

He grinds her clit against the heel of his hand leisurely, smirking when her eyelids flutter shut. “You’re filthy. You been like this all day? Shit.” He doesn’t know where his voice is coming from. He’s fairly certain it’s not his brain controlling it, the words flowing from some deep, dark, depraved little part of him he hasn’t let see the sun in so long. “You’d take anybody who walked in the door, wouldn’t you?”

Laurel gives a soft hum, nipping at his earlobe. “I want _you_.”

He could be cruel. Deny her. Make her beg again, beg until she’s sobbing and writhing atop him and half-mad with want. But he’s pretty sure if he does either of those things she’s going to throttle him, maybe strangle him with the seatbelt, and so he elects, wisely, to give in, surrender himself to her, resting back against the seat. He reaches up, anchoring a hand in her hair and kissing her hard, opening his mouth to draw her deeper, before pulling back and licking his lips, swollen and damp from kissing her. He feels lightheaded, like he’s shut himself in the garage with the engine running to inhale exhaust fumes, hallucinating the press of her lips, the brush of her fingers, her long, shaky keens and whimpers, and fuck, she’s so desperate, knocked up and still craving more, _begging_ for it.

If he thinks about the baby, right now, he’s probably going to envision it telling him on no uncertain terms to keep it in his pants or something. So he’s decidedly _not_ going to do that.

“I’ll take care of you,” he soothes, tucking a strand of hair gently behind her ear, pausing a moment to behold her in the orange-gold glow of the streetlights. It’s a moment of tenderness that feels almost out of place in their haste. “I got you.”

Gentleness, however, evidently isn’t something she’s interested in here and now – because before he can manage another word Laurel is bunching her dress up around her hips and shifting the crotch of her panties to the side, baring herself to him, her fingers gliding over her clit once, twice, for good measure, before she lines herself up, places a hand on the seat next to his shoulder to steady herself, and sinks down, taking him inside her in one swift movement.

It’s like an explosion ripping through his insides. Like a bullet hitting the back of his skull, splitting apart his brain matter, blowing it to bits. It’s so much, the slick, hot sensation of her cunt around him, tight and clenching involuntarily like she’s on the brink of coming already. She’s different in many ways, her body so much more responsive than he remembers, her curves accentuated, lips softer, even her taste itself altered slightly; sweeter, sweet as honey and as intoxicating as wine. She’s making sounds like he’s never heard before, too, as she rides him, picking up pace little by little, alternating between burying her face in his neck and moaning freely and pitching her head back, her throat a perfectly-carved marble column in the moonlight.

“Yes… _yes_ , oh, God, yes-”

God, it’s so much, so fucking much, sensory overload in the best possible way, and somehow it’s like it’s not enough either; not enough skin on skin, not enough _seeing_ her. He has his hands settled on her hips, at the sides of her swelling belly, and every now and then they roam up to palm her breasts over her dress, but the material is unyielding and he can feel woefully little of her. He can tell they’re larger; he wants to feel their weight, cup them in his palms. Suck the sensitive nipples raw and stroke them until they ache. He wonders if she’d let him see all of her, if he’s doomed to have only this; only quick, unsatisfying backseat trysts, though he’s sure they’ll both leave here tonight satisfied in at least one way.

He wants so much. He feels almost ungrateful to want more than this, want something he knows full well she’s not equipped to give. He can’t help it.

He does anyway.

And – shit, she’s never ridden him this way, ever, like he’s a horse she means to break, like she can’t get him deep enough, hard enough, fast enough. Frank can’t do anything but lay back and let her have her way with him, fuck herself on his cock like a toy, and just _watching_ her do that is a sight to marvel at in itself; the way her brows pinch together into immaculate arches, the perfect erotic oval of her lips, those debauched little sounds she emits, quickly escalating in pitch and frequency as the snap of her hips grows wilder. She’s grinding on him like a madwoman, and that look on her face, frustration mixed with pure ecstasy – fuck. _Fuck_.

Just _fuck_.

“Oh, fuck,” she huffs, hiding her face in the hollow of his throat once more. She mewls, and the sound is pure seduction, saturated with need. “ _Daddy_.”

He moans her name. He can’t help it; they don’t call each other anything but their pet names when they do this, or at least they aren’t supposed to, but how can he _not_ , watching her from below, serving himself up on a platter like a human sacrifice to a cruel, bloodthirsty goddess. And she _is_ thirsty, for vengeance, for blood – his, and others. For sex.

The swell of her stomach still occupies the space between them. His hands brush it accidentally, as they move together in the darkness. Frank thinks of that night.

He wants to ask but he doesn’t dare.

He tries to kiss her, pull her against him. Get her to open her eyes. But she won’t. Laurel doesn’t want intimacy, any pretense of love, affection. She doesn’t want anything other than what he’s giving her, and she’s close, now; he can tell by the way her once-steady rhythm is breaking, the way her moans have changed to short, pained grunts, like she’s trying to force her body to give into her desires by sheer brute force.

He can’t last much longer; he can feel himself swelling inside her, pressure building to its breaking point. It’s a damn physiological miracle he’s lasted this long at all, being fucked silly by Laurel Castillo, and a growl forms in the back of his throat, long and hoarse, his hips bucking up to meet her movements though it’s hard to move much at all. He tightens his hold on her hips, guiding her down onto him harder, and she sobs out a moan, something that might be _daddy_ again or might almost, almost be his name.

He used to call her the wallflower. He half-wants to laugh at the thought, the fucking _thought_. That was before he knew how loud he could make her scream.

Something breaks. The earth’s crust itself seems to fracture beneath them. He can’t pinpoint what, exactly; it isn’t some magical addition of his fingers on her clit, any one thing that tips them over the edge, but before he knows it she’s coming and he’s tumbling helplessly down the cliffside with her, bursting inside her cunt and feeling her milk him greedily, like she’s not content to let any of him escape, leave her, when he left her before and she’s hell bent never to let that happen again.

Every muscle in her body seems to clench and lock up in tandem, and she falls forward against him, muffling her cries in his shoulder, before drawing back and scraping her chin across the bristles of his beard, still with that goddamn indecent look on her face. Filthy. It’s filthy; this is all filthy, but filthy and twisted and dirty was always the norm for them, still is, even after everything. They occupy this space together effortlessly, as effortlessly as breathing.

There’s a moment, after. After they come back to themselves, return to their bodies, letting that fuzzy post-coital haze settle over them. Before she moves off of his cock, when it’s still buried inside her and they’re still joined, still one. Laurel draws back, meeting his eyes, and she’s so close all he can do is stare, transfixed, speechless. He thinks, for a second, that she’s going to say something; he can see the words as they form and then promptly fall apart on her lips.

He doesn’t know what they were going to be, but it doesn’t matter what they were, what they would have been. He has words he can’t say, too.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

No. No, he won’t dare do that either.

“So,” Frank manages to choke out, after she’s tumbled sideways back into the passenger seat, doing an awkward little shimmying maneuver to pull her dress down around her hips. He wants to stare; there’s so _much_ to stare at, from her well-kissed lips to her mussed hair to the spacey look in her eyes that’s always there when he knows he’s done his job well. “You done usin’ me as a human dildo or what?”

Laurel gives a flippant little shrug, though her nonchalance is mostly affected. “That depends.”

“On what?”

She licks her lips like he’s a meal she’s going to devour in one bite. And if he thought she was through with him tonight, well, it appears he has a whole ‘nother thing coming.

“You good to drive?”


	13. Insecure!Laurel, body worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before the finale last night, but pretty much everything fits in canon even after it, so. If you want a rough timeline placement, think a few months post 4x15.

She doesn’t recognize the girl in the mirror staring back at her.

She knows, on an intellectual level, that it’s her; she’s not crazy, though she knows there’re probably a sizable number of people who’d think that debatable after all this. She knows her own eyes, sharp blue dulled now by exhaustion she feels like she wears as a second skin, and her thick brows and angular cheekbones and the rosy bow of her lip, the gentle slope of her nose. The parting of her hair down the middle and the way the strands fall around her face, resting lightly on her shoulders. Dyed darker, like they were ages ago, in another life. There are lines on her face that weren’t there, in that other life – but this is her.

One glance down is all it takes to disabuse her of that notion.

It’s the first time she’s looked at herself nude in months. She hadn’t had much reason to look in the mirror, sure as hell hasn’t had the time. She hid her changing body beneath baggy blouses and sweaters while she was pregnant, and as long as it was out of sight it’d seemed relatively out of mind, but this – the sight of her naked form, full frontal, nowhere to hide – sends everything flying in a tailspin right back into her mind. She doesn’t recognize it, any of it; her bloated, heavy breasts and cellulite on her stomach and snaking stretch marks across her middle. A thousand new curves pregnancy gifted her with – and not the desirable kind. The awkward, lopsided, lumpy, anything _but_ kind.

She doesn’t know the girl in her reflection, separated from her by some surreal sense of detachment, like this is her in an alternate universe, a mutated, cartoon version of herself. But then her hands reach down to prod her stomach, finding the familiar firmness that was once there long gone, and then reach for her breasts, feeling their weight and wincing at their tenderness, and she knows.

It’s real. She and this reflection are one in the same, no ifs, and’s, but’s or ways around it.

She feels like a creature. An alien inside her own body, an alien inside this _apartment_ ; her old apartment, which Frank had set up for her not long after she got Christopher back, turned an empty, unlived-in place into a home for the three of them. She sticks out like a fat, sore thumb even in her own bedroom, and Laurel peers over at the bed and remembers the way she’d used to slip gracefully between the sheets, thin and lithe and without a care in the world. The way she’d used to undo her bra and peel off her clothing while Frank watched with hunger in his eyes.

Well. Safe to say that’s never gonna happen again.

Laurel resists the urge to cover herself. She needs to see this, and the longer she stares maybe the faster it’ll sink in; that this is her, now, and there’s no going back to the way she was. That girl, or that body, or that other life. She looks distorted in the mirror, all at once, like some hastily cobbled together arts and crafts project. A Mrs. Potato Head that someone jammed all the wrong parts into.

She’s pathetic, commiserating over something this cosmetic, ultimately pointless. She’s selfish, but she thinks quite frankly that any mother extolling the joys of having a baby is full of horseshit or flat out lying or drunk on some cliché domestic delusion, or all three. She feels deformed, hollowed out, her body forced to rearrange itself around an uninvited guest. She feels like a shitty mother for thinking of Christopher that way. Feels shitty about everything.

Feeling shitty seems to be a recurring theme for her, as of late.

“Hey, I’m gonna run out for bagels, do you-”

A voice startles her out of her reverie, and suddenly there’s Frank, nudging the bedroom door open unsuspecting and freezing the instant he lays eyes on her. She turns, reflexively, meeting his gaze and suddenly wanting nothing more than to fade into the wallpaper, dissolve into the carpet, because he’s looking at her, _seeing_ her this way when she can hardly stand to see herself, and if she needed anything else to make her feel like absolute shit – well, the look of shock in his eyes just about does it.

He doesn’t have time to hide it. All Frank has time to do is blink, then spin around to face the door. “Shit – sorry, I, uh, I shoulda…”

He drifts off, clearly flustered, probably goddamn horrified, and she wouldn’t blame him if he were. She knows logically that the changes aren’t grotesque, probably nowhere near as noticeable to him as they are to her, but every inch of her body feels odd, out of place, a distinct sense of _not hers_. She has no idea what to say, yet for some godforsaken reason she finds herself opening her mouth anyway, turning back to face the mirror, dropping her hands down to her sides. Baring herself once more, against her every instinct to do the opposite.

He should see this. See her. Dispel any misplaced naïve notion he might have that he could ever want her again. They’ll both be better off if she does.

“It’s okay. Not like you haven’t seen it before, I guess. Or, well-” She scoffs, smoothing her hands over her hips in dismay. “Not since…”

Her turn to fall silent. Frank clears his throat. “I’ll grab your usual. I’ll just… head out, I-”

He wants an escape, that much is clear. Again, Laurel doesn’t blame him – but she isn’t going to give him one, either. If he can reaffirm what she already knows. If she can drive him away with this, once and for all-

“No,” is all she says, face burning but her composure an otherwise thick, cool lacquer. “You should look.”

The mid-morning sun spills through the blinds, illuminating her clearly. There’s no darkness to cloak herself with, her body on display in its entirety, every curve and bulge and streak of tortured, puckered skin, the burns on her leg and back. She looks like a badly stitched ragdoll, the stuffing all pulled out of it, seams popping loose. Slowly, behind her, she sees Frank turn, still keeping his eyes lowered until he’s facing her once more, and only then does he dare to lay them on her.

She doesn’t know exactly what it is she’s seeing, when he looks at her. But now she’s sure it isn’t horror.

It looks, terrifyingly enough, like something impossibly tender.

A humorless smile plays at her lips. “In case you thought you still wanted me, this is… your buyer beware, I guess.”

Frank softens, his brows pulling together. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“I didn’t think about it at all, before I had him. What I’d look like after. What it would… do to me.” She swallows, something like a sob knotting in her chest, but she forces it down. “I’m disgusting.”

He takes a step forward. “You’re not, Laurel, c’mon-”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” she mutters, forlornly. “Look, I’m not fishing for compliments, I’m just-” She exhales. “Letting you know. So you can jump ship, whenever you want.”

He’s looking at her, now, standing close enough that she can see him in the mirror, even though she wishes desperately she couldn’t. He won’t stop looking, and where she had expected revulsion in his eyes there is none, only that soft blue longing she’s far too familiar with. It makes her want to tear off her skin, the thought of him looking at her. Makes self-loathing slither around her insides. She wants to run. Hide. Cover herself. Anything. But she’s been stunned into stillness by the intensity of his gaze. All she can do is stand there.

“I’m not-” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“I ruin everyone,” she tells him, no sorrow in the statement, no self-pity. It’s only a matter of fact. “I ruined my own life. I’ll ruin you too. You should-” She lowers her eyes. “You should go.”

He shakes his head. All she gets is a firm, unblinking: “No.”

“Frank, I can’t-” That damn lump again, choking her voice, making her sound weak. She clenches her jaw. “I can’t be what you need. And I’m not… I’m not what you want-”

It’s like throwing rocks at a blindly loyal dog, trying to get it to run off. Be free. It would be better for him. She’s spent so long shutting him out that there’s no universe in which it makes sense for him to stay another second here, waiting for some day that might never come, and there’s no reason he has to other than his stubborn belief in her. It’s equally as frustrating as it is touching, to know that she doesn’t deserve it.

Still, he doesn’t budge. He just keeps looking at her, drinking in the sight of her naked flesh, meeting her eyes in the mirror. Now, there’s want bleeding into that tenderness; blatant desire he isn’t making any effort at all to hide.

“You are,” he says, voice rasping in his throat.

“Frank-”

“You are,” he repeats, more firmly this time, and takes a step closer, then another, until she can feel him fighting the urge to reach out and touch her; a losing battle he’s losing fast. “You don’t gotta be any certain type of way. I just want you.”

That’s the one thing she’s always envied about him: the way he loves. How simple it seems to be for him. How he opens himself up to it, lets it pry open his chest, pin him down like an insect and crawl inside him. She doesn’t get it; she never has, when her love only ever seems to be dysfunctional, some broken, defective thing she can give only in half measures. Only when it’s too late.

But right here. Right now, with him. Maybe-

Maybe, she realizes, for once she isn’t too late.

“Look at me,” she tells him, again.

She doesn’t know why. He is looking. He hasn’t stopped looking since she first told him he could. He’s fascinated, rapt. Like he’s seeing something he’ll never see again.

“I am.”

Two words. All he gives her. Before Laurel knows it, he’s reaching out very cautiously and placing a hand on her shoulder, and God, the thought of being looked at was bad enough, but the feeling of being _touched_ in this new body is infinitely worse. It makes her want to recoil, like a turtle into its shell, but she has nowhere to hide, and a strange, irrational part of her doesn’t want to, because with that one worshipful touch she can feel herself despising her own skin ever so slightly less.

She swallows. “Frank-”

“I’m looking,” he says, voice whisper-soft, eyes lingering on his hand where it rests. “Christ, Laurel, how the hell do you not see it?”

The question throws her. “What?”

What does he mean. What the hell does he _see_. To her he looks almost insane, like a madman with grand hallucinations visible only to him, but his touch is measured and careful and anything but. He’s looking at her like every inch of her body is a revelation. Not something to be hidden at all.

“Lemme show you,” he tells her, and again, she blinks.

She can feel how badly he wants to touch her, how it takes every scrap of willpower in him to refrain. She’s scared shitless and witless and speechless. She doesn’t know what’ll happen if he touches her; she doesn’t know if she can let anyone touch her, ever again – but after everything they’ve been through, the one thing she’s never doubted is that he would never hurt her. He knows her limits. He can learn her new ones.

He _wants_ to.

“Look, I can’t make you see what I see, okay? I get it. But lemme try.” The look on his face, eyes brimming with sincerity – it half makes her want to sob. She’s never been looked at this way in her life. “Lemme show you.”

There’s something in the way he says the words, this note of reverence laced through them, that breaks her. She can’t find her voice, can only manage a barely perceptible nod, but Frank notices and takes the cue, letting his hands slide gradually down to her hips, where they settle. She’s tense all over, rigid as stone, and she knows he’s picking up on it; he’d have to be completely daft not to, when before she was always open with her body, never had many inhibitions. She celebrated her sexuality. Nothing about her is worth celebrating, now.

Frank, for his part, seems to beg to differ.

The first kiss he presses to her shoulder is tentative, his beard bristling against her skin and sending a shiver ricocheting through her. He makes no sudden movements, going to great lengths not to startle her, his hands palming her hips, shaping her like an artist does his masterpiece. He doesn’t shy away from the changes he sees; he didn’t when she was pregnant, either, seeing them only as a part of her, different and yet the same and still just as beautiful. He explores them, coaxing her to turn so he can kiss her properly; nothing too deep or aggressive. Just the same overwhelming tenderness she’d seen in his eyes before flowing into his kiss, the soft, undemanding press of his lips against hers.

Dazed, she lets him guide her over to the bed, relaxing bit by bit but still guarded, her skin screaming every time he touches it, like it’s liable to try to tear itself off her bones and go running. She’ll never see what he sees, she’s sure of it, and when only a second ago she’d felt sure, a sudden spike of panic rips through her at the feeling of his hands on her, all _over_ her, too much at once and too fast. It’s been there all along, that underlying guardedness, and of course Frank notices.

“Hey,” he undertones, grinding to a halt immediately as soon as he feels her stiffen against him. They’re still close, his hands on her sides, his chest brushing her bare breasts, and she wants to move away as much as she wants to press in closer, an eternal battle raging behind her eyes; between fear and hatred of this body she inhabits now and everything she feels for him, that tangled mess of emotion. “This good?”

He’s gauging her reactions carefully, to see if he’s crossed a line somehow. She wants to tell him he hasn’t, but the truth of the matter is sometimes she’s no longer even sure where her own boundaries are, what might trigger something in her and shut her down. She thinks this may be him giving her an out, one last chance to bolt before they reach the point of no return, and he looks like he half-expects her to take it, pull away and shut this whole thing down at once. She should, maybe.

Should. But God knows and she knows she’s always been shit at _should_.

“Yeah,” she breathes, a wave of calm sweeping over her as she looks into his eyes, that depthless, tranquil blue made crystal clear by the sunlight. “Yeah, this’s… this’s good.”

He lays her down on the bed as lightly as he can, with a gentleness that belies everything about him, his stature and strength and the knowledge of everything he’s done. He’s bad, God, she knows that. He’s not a good man and yet he’s so good to her, and she knows right then as he dusts her collarbone with slow, languid kisses that there’s no one else for her. To be with anyone else would mean spending the rest of her life lying about who she is, the things she’s done.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, she thinks.

Better the devil that knows you, too.

He doesn’t do anything more than kiss her for what feels like an eternity, at first lingering at her collarbone and moving up to her jawline but avoiding her full, sensitive tits, smoothing his hands over her hips with all the appetite of a starving man at a banquet – but it’s contained desire, careful and restrained. He’s still fully clothed, and the inequity of the situation isn’t lost on her; once, she would’ve demanded he be naked too, though she can tell this is his attempt to remain nonthreatening, only giving her as much as she wants and not an ounce more.

And the way he’s touching her; soft but steady, pupils blown wide and half-crazed and face flushed like he’s drunk on her scent alone, having some sort of goddamn religious experience. She can feel herself starting to open, like a flower deprived of the sun finally drinking in its first taste of daylight, ravenous for the taste of it. She’d forgotten what it was like to be touched this way. Frank kisses like he’s taking the bread of her body as communion, drinking her in like wine. The blood of Christ, blood of her body, and they’re bounded by blood, always have been, always will be.

But the look in his eyes, the way he worships her without a sound. They’re bounded by something far more enduring now, Laurel knows, even if she’s too afraid to put a name on it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes the words out on a whisper and kisses at her neck, biting back a moan. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

She gulps, feeling heat blossom between her thighs, all the dormant parts of her body coming alive for the first time in months as he begins to descend. She feels alive, with him, blessedly human and real. She was a ghost for months, a vengeful spirit stuck in the past while the world moved forward without her, but he’s brought her back, grounded her. He keeps her grounded.

Finally, he reaches the juncture of her thighs. And fucking hell, she’d forgotten the _other_ things he can do for her too.

“Good?” he pants, mouth hovering over her cunt, and she bites her lip to hold back a moan.

This was never his style. He never used to ask permission with her; she didn’t like him to. He would throw her down and take charge, eat her out until she was barely conscious and begging. But now – now, she needs to be eased back into sex, they both know that.

The only response he gets out of her is a needy whimper, and Frank begins to move in but pulls back at the last second, looking up at her with a twinkle in his eye.

“Watch me,” Frank tells her, breathing hard and damn near salivating, settled in between her legs like he could take up residence there indefinitely. “Watch me show you. You’re goddamn gorgeous, lemme show you.”

The sight of this from her viewpoint above, her legs splayed apart and a panting Frank between them, her entire body on display, scars and lumps and bumps and all, breasts rising and falling – it’s hot. She looks – and feels – absurdly fucking _hot_ , just being laid out and worshipped, touched like gold. She feels no shame. No desire to peel off her skin and hide away. He’s looking at her with that same hunger he always has.

More, even.

“Oh, fuck, Frank…”

His name comes out as a moan. He smirks. “That can be arranged. But watch, first.”

He starts slow, each swipe of his tongue across her clit painstakingly deliberate, giving a call and awaiting her body’s response. Laurel props herself up on one elbow as best she can to watch him, and as soon as she’s started she can’t tear her eyes away. It’s hypnotic, watching him bury his face between her legs and zero in on her, the rest of the universe fading away for him in that instant, so utterly _fixated_ on her body’s reactions.

He doesn’t fuck into her with his tongue, add his fingers; he only kisses her, alternating licking and the right amount of suction until she can feel herself rising toward him, chasing her pleasure, desperate to get higher. She’s so high already, slipping the bonds of gravity more with each passing second, until the anchors of his hands on her thighs are the only things keeping her from leaving the stratosphere altogether. He’s doing less eating her out than he is just making love to her with his mouth. It makes her build agonizingly slowly, but slow is the game plan today, clearly. She’s had fast before anyway, all that _fast, hard, make-your-toes-curl sex_ he’d professed to be his specialty. She’s had more than her fair share of it.

Now, they’ve got all the time in the world to go slow.

“Oh, God-” she chokes out, and out of nowhere she laughs, feeling delightfully insane. “ _God_.”

He pauses, drawing back and cocking his head to one side and making a grand show of wiping off his mouth with his forearm, but it doesn’t hide how soaked his beard is, his lips glistening. The filthy grin he gives almost does her in right then and there.

“Believe me yet?”

He doesn’t speed up when he dives back in, even when she reaches down and threads her fingers through his hair. It’s long enough to do that again, now, and long enough for him to slick back like he used to. Even so, he doesn’t quicken his pace; he simply refocuses the bulk of his efforts on her clit, sealing his lips around the nub with just enough pressure to turn her moans silent. Make her voice give out altogether.

When the levee breaks she damn near goes cross-eyed, falling back onto the comforter as he tugs her down hard toward him by the hips to continue his work with even more fervor. Frank drives her through it gently but entirely without relent, as if intent on squeezing every last drop out of her. He looks almost euphoric, eyes dancing, and she watches him guide her through it as best she can, until she’s limp and boneless and twitching and sated in a way she hasn’t felt in ages. It feels like an earthquake, upending the ground and splitting open her world, pouring everything out of her – all her fear, her insecurities – and replacing them with love. Her entire world goes fuzzy, and when it snaps back into focus she finds Frank has moved back somewhat, staring at her as the aftershocks rattle through her bones, until finally the last one rolls through and she stills.

“You good?” he presses, again, as she reaches down between her legs, holding his head with her hands, caressing his jaw.

She can’t string any kind of coherent sentence together, and she thinks Frank must pick up on the fact because he makes his way back up to her without asking again, settling down beside her, kissing her on the mouth with the same depth and focus with which he’d kissed her cunt. They come together with no effort or awkwardness at all, like puzzle pieces. Magnets realigning. Polar opposites – when really, she thinks, they’re one in the same.

“Look,” Frank says, when she still hasn’t given him an answer. “You’re different. So what? You grew a whole other person inside you, Laurel, that’s goddamn crazy. Your body’s goddamn _strong_. And it’s hot as hell. Any time you start thinkin’ it’s not, you come to me, and I’ll remind you. ‘Sides.” He pauses, smirking. “You’re a total MILF now.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” she mock groans against his lips. “Jesus, Frank-”

“What? We promised not to lie to each other anymore. That’s God’s honest truth right there.”

He holds her for a long time, after, him still clothed and her still nude, his hands idly exploring her body, tracing the contours of her hips. Frank seems to revel in memorizing all the new pieces of her, rediscovering her. He’s so transfixed she can’t help but feel her insecurities fading; he simply kneads them right out of her, draws them to the surface like poison and drains them away, kissing her until she’s sleepy, warm all over.

“I am,” she mutters all at once, as she toes the edge of consciousness. She’s rolled over facing away from him with Frank spooning her from behind, and she can tell he’s confused by the way he sits up slightly, leaning in.

Beside her, Frank hums. “Huh?”

“You asked if I was good, before.” She pauses, a drowsy smile working its way onto her lips as she angles her head back to look at him. “I am.”

She’s good. God, she never thought she would say that again and _mean_ it. But she’s good, so good, and so is this.

Yes, she thinks, shifting in Frank’s arms and burrowing back against him. This is good, too. This is very, very good.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://laurelcasfillo.tumblr.com/)!


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